


Little Talks - Repost

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-divergent At Chapter 12, F/M, In-Between Scenes - Season 7, Romance, Sexuals as always, Some Fluff, because fuck season 8, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Repost of a Season 7 In-Betweener I wrote last year.  Examines what exactly Jon and Dany might've done with their time once Davos and Tyrion set off for King's Landing.  I mean, surely they got up to *something*.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 141
Kudos: 285
Collections: jonerys18





	1. Little Talks

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously not completed, but is now, with the final chapter done, so I'll drop probably two a day 'til it's completely re-uploaded. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany's really trying to figure this motherfucker out, you know.

Title: Little Talks  
by NorthernLights37  
  
Summary:

Set during 7.05, "Eastwatch"

Their Hands would be gone for two weeks, perhaps three, and Daenerys realized that if she wanted to know more about this stubborn Northern King, she ought to ask one who grew up with him.

Dammit another WIP someone save me

  
  
Notes:

Moodboard courtesy of my past self, The always stunning NoOrdinaryLines!

This is, admittedly, a very loose play on the "Tell me a secret" prompt, but when I saw the challenge I thought it might fit with an idea I'd had rattling around for awhile now. Enjoy while I whittle away at what remains to be written for my other assorted and sundry shitstorms :) You are all lovely and beautiful and I would definitely raise a wilding army to fight for you.

Challenged by the lovely LustOnMyFingers AND NoOrdinaryLines by but started by LadyofDragonstone.

My prompt: "Tell me a secret"

I've borrowed the title from the wonderful band Of Monsters And Men, from the album "My Head is an Animal". The song isn't mine, and neither are the characters, I'm just borrowing these little beans.

  
  
Published at: 2018-07-05  
Revised at: 2018-09-24 15:59:02 -0400  
  
Chapter 1: Little Talks  


Daenerys stood in the open balcony of her council chamber, Aegon’s table at her back and the open sea before her, her eyes tracking the still-visible ship that made for King’s Landing. It would be two weeks, perhaps three, before they returned, or so Tyrion had said. They had departed a few hours before, these men sworn to herself and to the King in the North, and it had not escaped her notice that she would be without Tyrion’s rather observant eye for what had seemed originally to be hardly any time at all.

Now, though, the days stretched before her, the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She scoffed to herself, shaking her head at the idea. Thus far, it had proven a dangerous undertaking to swear fealty to her, and she had a great number of dead allies to confirm this one bleak reality. In hindsight she could hardly blame the stubborn Northman for his hesitation; Daenerys might do quite the same were the roles reversed, as she rather preferred remaining amongst the living herself.

She turned, pacing a slow circuit around the carved map of Westeros that had served her ancestors, her gaze lighting on each Kingdom in turn, eyes halting and holding at the painted image of Winterfell and the carved wolf placed alongside the seat of the Starks. 

The Queen reached a finger to trace along the shape of the King’s home, her mind turning over what she knew to be true of the Starks and this Jon Snow. Tyrion had been a fair source of information on the Wolves of the North, but in truth his time and experience with the young King had been fairly limited, even by his own admission. That had not stopped him from heaping what amounted to vast praise on this stubborn man, for Tyrion’s trust was hard earned, and his fondness ever more difficult to obtain.

But Jon Snow had gained both, and she could not discount her Hand’s opinion, no matter how aggravating and indignant the man had seemed at first. She shifted her eyes as she pondered the King in the North, a man not at all what she had expected, and who proved harder to understand than any other she’d ever met.

He was very…well, perhaps different was an apt description, but even so it fell short of the shifting mystery of just who Jon Snow was, at the heart of him, and why he so resisted her requests to bend the knee, aside from the rather dreadful fates that had befallen her other allies.

The Iron Islands caught her attention, and her eyes shot up suddenly, a realization washing over her filled her with an odd excitement that was best not to dwell on, at least not now. She made haste to the door of the chamber, the familiar faces of Qhono and her closest bloodriders meeting her as she made her request.

“Find me Theon Greyjoy. Bring him here.” After moment, a beat in which she realized she would rather like another opinion, a trusted opinion from the one true friend she could claim in all the Realms, she spoke once more. “And ask Missandei to join us.”

The former heir to the Iron Islands had grown up in Winterfell, this much she knew from Tyrion. And if she wished to unlock the mystery of Jon Snow, then perhaps Theon might be the key.

\-------------

It was Missandei who entered first, a small, comforting smile of greeting dancing across her face as the sunlight from the arched windows played across her features. She stepped to the Queen’s side and both women watched as Theon Greyjoy made his hesitant way into the room, taking a seat beside the fire at a gesture from Daenerys.

So much fear in one man, she mused, taking a seat as well and watching as he made several attempts to meet her eyes before he was successful, almost cowering before her though they remained allies still.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?” His voice was quiet, so much so that she found herself leaning forward slightly to hear him, and she wordlessly looked to Missandei who stood at her shoulder before she spoke.

Daenerys held out a hand, her fist closed around the object she now revealed to the man before her, the carved wolf representing the Starks.

“Tell me what you know of Jon Snow.” It was not a question, and he did not receive it as such, but his eyes widened in surprise all the same, as if the King in the North was the last thing he’d expected to discuss.

“What do you mean?” He sounded perplexed; For a moment she wondered if he was purposefully misunderstanding, as though she were right and there was such secrecy to Jon Snow that even the Greyjoy man was loathe to speak of him, but there existed in his perpetually frightened eyes nothing but genuine confusion.

“You were raised at Winterfell, my Lord, isn’t that correct?” Theon nodded at her question, his eyes lowering in shame at the mention of the home he had known in the North.

“Aye. I was.” Theon now sighed as he responded, leaning back against the wooden seatback and closing his eyes for a moment before he continued. He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, his gaze turning to the flames to his left as he spoke. “We were all about the same age, I suppose. Me, Jon…and Robb.” The thin man’s head hung, in what looked very much like sorrow. 

Daenerys knew what treachery Theon had committed, knew all too well of the betrayal of Jon’s brother, the King in the North before him. She did not wish to linger on such topics, and so she tried to steer this broken Lord back to the knowledge she sought. “Were you close? Being of such similar age and growing up together?”

Theon swallowed hard, watery blue eyes meeting hers though she could see he still struggled to do so. “I am ashamed to admit it, Your Grace, but I was terrible to Jon when we were boys. I was jealous, I see that now, jealous that a bastard boy had the sort of family I never would, jealous that he had a father who cared for him more than my own would ever care for me.” He swept a shaky hand across his face. “But then, Jon was always better than me. Perhaps he hated me, as we grew older, and I shouldn’t think to blame him for that. I gave him every reason to, made sure every chance I got that I reminded him of what he was, and that Robb and I were highborn and he was just a Snow.”

She was not sure what to make of the anger that flared to life in her, and even more unsure why she felt such need to defend this man who’d sought her aid and then defied her request in turn. That was the sort of this she would consider when she was alone with her thoughts and her foolish notions were hers alone to ponder.

Theon spoke once more, thankfully unaware of the turmoil that raged within Daenerys, his eyes sorrowful as they met hers once more. “But for however I might have tried to knock him down a peg or two, there were none so cruel to him as Lady Stark.” She watched as the Ironborn man’s jaw tightened. “She liked to pretend Jon didn’t exist at all. But when given no other option she made sure he knew how much she hated him. Jon wasn’t allowed to eat with us, you know.” Theon nodded to himself, his gaze returning to the fire, unable to meet hers any longer, his words continuing in a heartbreaking cadence that made an unwanted wetness rise in her eyes.

“There were no nameday celebrations for Jon Snow. He received no clothes but our cast-offs. While Robb and I would strut about Winter Town with the ladies Jon would stay out of sight, never trying to draw any attention to himself. Before he left for the Wall…” Theon’s voice trailed off, unsure eyes flicking to hers as though he wasn’t sure he should share what he had nearly spoken, but at her commanding stare he seemed helpless but to continue. He drew in a short breath, exhaling sharply and speaking lowly, as if he were imparting some secret knowledge. “Before he left for the Wall, Robb and I made him go with us to the brothel in Winter Town. Tried to get him to enjoy himself, for once.”

Silence lingered, and for a moment she hated how desperately she wanted to know such personal things about Jon, as though she were betraying their fragile alliance by seeking such information. But her desire to know outweighed whatever guilt had risen to the surface. “And?”

Theon studied her for a moment, considering her now in a way that she wasn’t sure she liked. “He sat there with his back to us while we made merry with the girls. Sat there pouting ‘til we were done, and didn’t speak to us the whole way back to Winterfell.” The man before her shook his narrow face and gave her a rueful smile. “I asked Robb what he was on about, why his bastard brother thought he was too good to amuse himself with a whore. Robb said that Jon refused because he would never father a bastard himself. He’d never force a child to live the sort of life he had, to carry the blame of his father’s mistakes. That Jon would deny himself completely before he’d inflict on a helpless babe the shame of such a life.”

Daenerys stood, suddenly, because sitting and listening had become simply unbearable, each word that fell from this man’s lips becoming knives that carved their way into her chest, a dangerous fondness and respect sharpening their edges as they cut ever closer to the dead, shriveled heart that lay useless inside her.

She could hear no more. She *would* hear no more. Because this Jon Snow was a very real threat, that much she understood. He would not harm her; no, she rather suspected he was far more honorable than any she’d met. But he posed a danger to the woman who still dwelt inside her, the girl who’d sailed for these shores because she longed for a home. She longed to belong somewhere. And she was starting to suspect he was the same.

There was a small, tiny seed that had taken root in her most private thoughts, as Theon Greyjoy had spoken, something that made her think shameful things indeed, thoughts most unbecoming of a Queen. And she privately thought that Jon Snow was very much like the handsome princes in fairy stories that silly girls swooned for, that he was noble and good and true.

However, those tales were merely words on a page, but the King in the North was flesh and blood. He was very real and he was here with her and she was going to have to keep tight control over those occasional flights of fancy. 

The Queen took a position at the head of Aegon’s table, pushing down such whimsical nonsense to question Theon now in a demanding tone. “Why will this Northern King not bend the knee, Theon Greyjoy?”

The heir to the Iron Islands rose, taking halting steps to stand opposite her, the Seven Kingdoms between them. “Not for matters such as pride, that much I know. Jon was never the sort to seek out such power for himself.” He placed pale hands before him, bracing himself against the surface. “I reckon Jon probably doesn’t think it’s his place to make such a decision for the people of the North. He may be a King, Your Grace, but he’ll never stop seeing himself as no more than a Bastard.”

Now it was she who swallowed hard, clasping her hands together tightly, her palms pressing against each other as she fought a wave of regret. She understood, in a way she had not before, why he continued to refuse to kneel. His people had chosen him to lead them, and not for his name; He was a Snow, not a Stark, the Bastard of Winterfell. Had their roles been reversed she could not see herself choosing any differently. Those who followed her did not do so because she was a Targaryen. They did so because they believed in her, and she was a fool for not recognizing this undeniable truth before now.

But fealty was not her only option. Not when it came securing alliances.

“Let us suppose, my Lord, that I offered a different solution to this stalemate between King in the North and myself. Suppose I were to offer an alliance secured by marriage to Jon Snow. Would he be so opposed to those terms?” As the very words left her lips she was seized by a sudden twist of uncertainty, bracing herself to hear that the honorable Jon Snow would never consider such a union between himself and the Mad King’s daughter.

But Theon’s eyes widened, his brow furrowing as he considered her question. Seconds dragged ruthlessly on in silence before a wry amusement lit his face, and for a moment Daenerys could see that the broken Lord before her had probably been quite a charmer before the horrors that had befallen him had turned him into but a shell of a man. “I don’t suspect it would ever have crossed his mind as a real option, Your Grace. Jon would never presume to think a woman like you would lower yourself to one such as him. And that’s exactly what he’d see it as, whether there was any truth to that notion or not.” She opened her mouth to interrupt, her ire stoked on Jon Snow’s behalf once more that such a proposed union would be viewed as such, but in what must have been a rare fit of boldness he raised a shaking hand to stop her.

“He’s a good man, Daenerys Stormborn. I don’t think you’ll meet a better one.” His voice was stronger, now, and he slowly made his way around the table to where she stood, Missandei dutifully beside her, stopping only when he drew even with the Queen. “When I arrived back on these shores, and I saw him, I knew he was well within his rights to kill me right then and there, for my part in the destruction of House Stark. Do you know what he said?” She shook her head. She had not been present when Theon had returned, and had heard only a loose accounting of the rather unhappy reunion between the two men.

Theon looked across the table, spying a carved dragon and picking it up, turning it over in his hands. “He said if it wasn’t for what I’d done for his sister he’d have killed me right then and there. Some days I wish he had.” He sighed, placing the sigil of her house before her and watching as she finally released the wolf still held in her grasp, lowering it to the surface of the table beside the dragon. “Sansa wasn’t kind to him either, you know. Much like her lady mother when she was younger. But still, Jon raised an army to take back Winterfell, not for himself, but for what remained of House Stark. He has a good heart, Your Grace, but should you wish such an arrangement you will have to present it yourself.” 

A chuckle escaped the man’s lips, his face turning back towards her in amused regard. “And I suspect you’ll still have to convince him on that front as well.” He picked up the carved wolf, now, and the dragon, and after a moment’s consideration placed them both inside the border of the Crownlands. “But there’d be no better King to rule by your side than him. He will be true to you, should you take him as a husband. He knows no other way.” Theon looked squarely at her, now, something akin to pride in his voice as he cautioned her, “But he’ll never think he deserves you.”

Daenerys felt Missandei clutch her arm, feeling a bit overcome suddenly, and she spun to face the sea as well, the breeze calming nerves that became increasingly frayed the longer she spoke with the Greyjoy heir. And now it was she who could not bring herself to meet his eyes, dismissing him quietly as she stepped fully onto the balcony, watching as her children rode the strong currents of air and desperately trying to piece together what it was she wanted from Jon Snow. Because now, frighteningly, the thought of him kneeling before her in fealty made her feel slightly ill.

Now it was far more satisfying to think on what it would feel like to be held by him, but it terrified her as well. Jon Snow was not Drogo. He was not Daario. He was an altogether different sort of man. He was a King, whether he saw such in himself or not.

Daenerys saw it. She saw the honor in him fully now, the loyalty, the honesty. The stupid, reckless bravery that made far too much sense now. Jon Snow took such risks not because he sought glory, but because he did not feel his life was worth more than the risks he took.

But he was a King, and she was a Queen, and Tyrion had made it plain enough without saying the actual words that she ought to make whatever inroads she could with this handsome King in her Hand’s absence.

She cast her eyes about the view below her, the sandy shores of her ancestral home and the gentle caress of the waves as they broke upon the beaches of Dragonstone, and saw him suddenly; The King in the North appeared from the mouth of the mines he toiled in every day, alongside the men she had provided to assist him. From high above Daenerys could not make out his features clearly, but she saw him plain enough every time she closed her eyes, more frequently than was prudent if she were honest with herself, but no matter how much she scolded that little voice that whispered to her it refused to be silenced.

He *was* quite comely.

His lips looked so achingly soft for a man of such hard constitution.

There was something rather endearing about his bluntness in dealing with her, something very refreshing in his brutal honesty.

She wondered what secrets lie below the leathers he always wore, what pleasures a woman such as herself might find under the bracers and furs and armor.

She imagined what truth she might find were she to look upon him unclothed, what answers his skin would reveal should she only think to ask the right questions.

Daenerys twirled a lock of silver hair around her finger, lost in thought to be sure, but not so unaware as to miss the presence of Missandei beside her. She looked to her friend, now, for the first time not shying away from the knowing look in her translator’s golden eyes.

“Would you mind asking the King in the North to join me for dinner this evening, my friend?” She credited herself for maintaining eye contact even as a sly smile crept across Missandei’s face, returning it with a small, bashful twist of her own lips.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Missandei hesitated, biting her lip in hesitation before addressing Daenerys in a low, hushed voice, “Would you be open to some advice? From a friend?”

Daenerys pondered her friend, and the mysterious ‘many things’ she had alluded to, and gave a halting nod.

“If you wish the King to tell you his secrets, you ought to share some of your own.” 

With that, she left, in a sweep of skirts and another all-too-wise grin, leaving Daenerys alone with just herself and the prospect of having the King in the North to herself for the evening, and prayed to whichever Gods might still dwell on these shores that she would manage not to make a complete fool of herself.

A pointless notion, she knew, because it was increasingly obvious to her that when it came to Jon Snow she was naught more but a fool, a silly girl full of foolish wishes and, she realized with a start, something that had begun to feel like hope.

  



	2. Dirty Paws

  
Chapter 2: Dirty Paws  
Summary:

Sigh. I did the thing. Just giving my mind a break from the heavy, overarching end game theory Adrift has now become with some silly fluff between our two beans. Dinner and forgotten possessions and drinking are found within!

Chapter Title also taken from Of Monsters and Men, from the album "My Head is an Animal". None of these things are mind I just like to play with them :)

  
  
Notes:

Chapter Two - dedicated to my bath bomb angel, CallMeDewitt, and the cofounder of the MomsReadingFicsnShit support group, Zarya1640. Two more lovely people could not be found!

  
  


Nervousness had crept in, and she longed to pace the length and breadth of her rooms, but Missandei remained devoted to the task of taming her wild mass of silver hair into something appropriate for a private dinner with the King in the North. Daenerys found herself relegated to twisting her fingers together, then apart, and together once more, anything to ease the ache that seems to course through her palms as she gazed at herself in the looking glass.

She had learned much in the little time she’d spent talking to Theon Greyjoy. Some of what he’d told her had only confirmed what she’d already suspected, of course. Jon Snow did not give the impression of a man who’d spent his fair share of time romancing and wooing the ladies of Westeros; to hear confirmation of such from a man who’d known the King from boyhood had been welcome news indeed.

That it had also prompted her unruly mind to tumble down a somewhat abandoned path, one that wound it’s way through piles of clothing and sweat-slicked skin and whose destination lay in a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths was something she would keep to herself, for now, though she was sure Missandei suspected as much from the way her friend continued to meet her eyes in the mirror.

Daenerys knew, above all else, that she must take care in how she proceeded. That had been very clear to her in the hours since her conversation with Yara’s brother. Jon Snow was a strange creature indeed; at times quietly confident and sure, then awkward and stilted and unable to meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. She had assumed that perhaps he possessed a lingering disdain for her, a dislike borne of that first clash between them, the day he’d arrived on Dragonstone.

Now, she suspected she had been completely wrong. Now, she thought, it was merely that Jon Snow had not had reason nor inclination to spend much time devoted to the art of dealing with the fairer sex. A smile formed before she could stop it, a softness to it that did not escape her as she caught her reflection again. Daenerys knew she could be intimidating when she wished; her physical beauty alone seemed to bring about fits of alternating praise and leering stares in other men.

Not Jon Snow. And there was something strangely endearing about the duality of him, that he could be, in one man, both a fearless warrior who faced down and even dared to reach a hand to touch her most fearsome son and a quiet, contemplative sort of soul who sought no extra attention for himself. The King in the North did not leer at her, instead risking small glances when he thought she wouldn’t notice, as though he were content merely to see her from afar.

She was not so content with that idea, however, and while she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about her growing fondness for him she did not think it could hurt to get to know him better, and to allow him the same opportunity where she was concerned. And if she discovered he was dull and insufferable under all that brooding solemnity, Daenerys was still resolved to find a way to strengthen, at the very least, a friendly working relationship with this quiet King.

The Queen watched as Missandei finished her always impeccable work, her hair loosely pulled away from her face and gathered back, twisting tendrils of loose curls hanging free in a fashion that was much more casual and less formal than she regularly wore it. She looked less severe, at least, and hopefully more approachable.

Tonight, she thought, glancing down at the plain, fitted tunic that she’d tucked into her well-worn riding leathers, she did not want to be the Dragon Queen. At least not for a few welcome hours.

She rose, finally, relieved to be able to walk off the nervous anticipation that made her breathe a bit faster, leaving her sleeping chambers with Missandei at her side. Daenerys glanced around the sitting area, the large room bright with lit braziers and oil lamps, making sure things were in order for her dinner guest.

“Shall I send for the King, Your Grace?” Her translator’s gentle voice pierced the swirling, circling storm of winged creatures that seemed to have found a home in the pit of her stomach, and the Queen turned to meet her friend’s warm, amused eyes.

“Am I being unwise, Missandei?” Daenerys could see her friend was surprised at the abrupt question, but Missandei was a woman of many talents, not the least of which being her ability to quickly tolerate her Queen’s sometimes erratic shift in conversation.

And she bore the scrutiny of Missandei’s gaze for long, silent moments before the woman extended a hand, her caramel skin burnished almost copper in the last rays of daylight that still lingered in the room. Daenerys allowed herself to be guided to the open, arched windows, the two silent as the sun continued it’s descent into the horizon.

When she finally answered, it was not in the clipped, formal tones used in the Queen’s throne room, but the quiet, hushed voice of a woman addressing a dear confidante. “It is always wise to befriend your allies, my Queen.” 

Daenerys crossed her arms across her chest, leaning her side against the stone and throwing the other woman a look that must have made clear her disbelief in the perfectly bland statement, judging by Missandei’s low giggle. “You’ve certainly had worse evenings than dining with a handsome King. And I do not see what harm there could be in befriending an ally.” Golden eyes left hers to face the sea once more. “He seems to be a good man. And I do not believe you have known many of those.”

The Queen remained silent for a beat, trying to ignore the sudden dampness of her palms and the increasing staccato of her heart. She sighed, her eyes tracking Rhaegal as he hunted with his brothers just off shore. “Perhaps that is the trouble, then. Because I fear I desire more than just the King’s friendship, and my judgment in such matters has proven dreadfully wrong before.”

It was the touch of Missandei’s warm hand upon her shoulder that finally drew her attention away from her hands, and after a comforting squeeze she spoke. “Best to take things slowly then, yes?”

Daenerys could not help but laugh at the almost cautioning tone in her friend’s voice. “Of course.”

\------------

When the knock finally sounded at her door she started, leaping from the seat she’d taken at the table laden with food and wine and, after a hurried consultation with the Greyjoy man, ale for the King in the North. Daenerys took a steadying breath before calling out “Enter!” in a voice that belied a calmness she was nowhere close to possessing.

But when the door opened, revealing Missandei, draped in cream silks and a barely concealed smirk on her lips, she felt herself settle a bit. “The King in the North, Your Grace.” Her friend stepped to the side and then there he was, handsome and intriguingly terrified judging by the expression on his face. Jon Snow stifled it quickly, his usual stoic mask slipping back into place when his flinty eyes met hers, but she had seen it all the same, and there was something in this shared fear of each other that soothed her, oddly enough.

“Your Grace.” The rich, accented burr of his voice did things to her she preferred not to dwell on, not when he was right here in her rooms and she’d sworn to herself that she meant only to befriend him. Not trusting her own voice at the moment, she smiled slightly and nodded in acknowledgement, reaching a hand towards the table and gesturing for him to be seated.

Daenerys crossed the room, feeling his eyes on her now as she approached Missandei, whispering to her translator in Valyrian that she should please dismiss the bloodriders outside the Queen’s chambers when she took her leave. The solid wood beneath her palms was something gratifyingly real to focus on as she closed the door, before turning to find herself finally alone with the man who had unwittingly found his way into her private thoughts and now sat ready to dine with her, heavy furs across his shoulders and his eyes wide at the selection of food she had requested.

Theon had not known what Jon Snow preferred to eat, Missandei had disclosed earlier, because it wasn’t the sort of thing the man had ever thought to ask the bastard boy he’d known in the North.

At the sound of her booted steps approaching the King’s head turned, the silence in the room heavy but not unbearable. She seated herself opposite him, risking a small glance to find him watching her still, and she cleared her throat as she poured herself a dram of wine, taking a sip before addressing him.

“Before we dine, there are two things I must address, if you please?” Daenerys held his gaze steadily, noting his surprise that she would ask his permission, waiting until he gave a nod of assent before continuing.

“First, I fear I owe you an apology.” Jon Snow looked at her in confusion, his brow wrinkling, grey eyes questioning. She swallowed more wine, feeling her cheeks heat anew as she remembered her rather mortifying outburst two days prior in her small council chambers. “You are my guest here, and I presumed to order you about as though you were my prisoner instead. I ask your forgiveness, Jon Snow, for any offense I may have caused.”

Daenerys watched as he relaxed somewhat, leaning back against his chair after pouring himself a measure of ale. “There’s nothing to forgive, Your Grace. I fear I let my temper get the better of me as well.” He sampled his drink, eyes lighting up a bit as he tasted the Northern ale Tyrion had sent for once they learned the King would be making the journey to Dragonstone. “Is this Northern?”

Daenerys smiled then, a genuine smile that she could feel wrinkling the corners of her eyes, and the slight catch in Jon Snow’s breathing at the sight of it made her feel warmer than she ought to whilst alone with him. “It is. And luckily for you, King in the North, my Hand refuses to touch it, or we might already find ourselves running dangerously low.”

Jon Snow laughed then, and for a moment there was such beauty in the sound of it, in the sight of it, that her own breath caught painfully in her chest. She wondered if such an act was as much a rarity for him as it was for her, to laugh. She pushed past such musings, though, to press on with the other matter to address. “The other matter…well,” she absently tugged a lock of hair over her shoulder, the smooth silk of it wrapping around her finger as she met his eyes, “I wonder if you would not mind addressing me by name as we dine, and that I might do the same as well.” 

“As you wish.” He swallowed, his eyes darting to her before returning to the table, serving himself as he gave her what she desired. “Daenerys.”

“Many thanks, Jon.” She watched him start a bit at being addressed so by her, but if he felt as wonderfully unsettled at being addressed so by her as she did by him, it did not stop his lips from twitching in a small smile at the sound of his name on her lips. “Sometimes I fear I shall forget my name altogether, as I so rarely hear it.”

Now he smiled fully, and she had to look away from the white flash of teeth and chuckle of amusement to focus on serving herself. “I understand that. I don’t think I shall ever be used to being addressed so. Part of me still wants to look about, to see who Ser Davos is speaking to.” He shrugged, furs lifting with his shoulders, and she wondered that he was not overheated in so many layers. “It was never anything I wished for myself, to be King.”

All the more reason for his people to have chosen him, she thought, but she did not say as much. Instead, she gestured with her fork, swallowing the bite she’d taken as he spoke. “And yet, here you are, Jon.”

“Aye.” His eyes darted about her fine chambers before settling on hers, something in the pitch of his voice as he answered that threatened to make her shiver despite the large fire roaring in the hearth at her back. “Here I am.”

\-----------

Daenerys thought she might owe Tyrion effusive thanks when he returned, for it seemed Northern ale relaxed the King enough to give her a glimpse of what he was like when he did not hide himself away.

He had a dry sense of humor that she found quite charming, really, recounting for her the journey to the Wall with the youngest Lannister Lord in such vivid detail that, by the time he reached the part where Tyrion had taken a piss of the top of the icy monstrosity that she was clutching her abdomen and giggling uncontrollably. That only seemed to spur him on, though, and finally she raised her palms in surrender, struggling to catch her breath as she reached for the pitcher of wine before her, the meal long finished.

“Oh, my.” She shook the vessel only to find it empty. “It seems I’ve drunk all my wine.”

She ought to bid him leave. She did not want to, as he had finally shed at least one layer, his furs lying forgotten over a nearby chair as he raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps Tyrion has been a bad influence on you.” He drained his own cup in one large swallow, and she could not stop her eyes from tracking the motion of his throat, wondering idly what he would taste like there if she were bold enough to press her lips against his skin. “I fear I have finished off my ale as well. I should retire for the night.” He sighed, his eyes examining his empty cup before meeting hers. “I reckon I’ll already regret such indulgence in the morning, and it will only be worse if I don’t at least try to get some rest.”

It occurred to her that she possessed the remedy for nights of overindulgence, something Missandei had become a deft hand at concocting, a mixture of herbs and oils from Essoss that had provided blessed relief to the dull, pounding headaches wine usually left her with. Daenerys rose, swaying only slightly on her feet as she approached the set of dark wooden shelves that lined the east wall of the room. After a moment’s rummaging, she found what she sought, grasping the small glass bottled stoppered with a cork and palming it as she made slow progress back to where the King sat waiting.

Oh, yes, he was a very dangerous man. He watched her draw close, his control lessened enough by the ale and, she hoped, the company, that he did not attempt to hide the way his eyes traced her face, stopping briefly on her lips before ending at her eyes.

Daenerys drew in a shallow, ragged breath, risking a nearness to him that allowed her to feel the heat of his body even as he remained seat, reaching over his shoulder to place the bottle before him on the table. Her hair swung forward at the motion, a sweeping fall of silver that brushed against his leathers as she turned her face to his, their eyes level with each other. “If you drink this,” she whispered, licking suddenly dry lips, her pulse thundering as he traced the movement of her tongue before dragging his gaze back to hers, “you will find such indulgence not quite as punishing.”

It would be so easy, she thought, to inch forward, to close the distance between his mouth and hers and taste this Northern ale for herself, to learn the flavor of it from his tongue. But she shouldn’t, certainly not now, and she scolded herself as she quickly straightened, making her way to the door as she heard the scrape of his chair behind her. 

Daenerys turned to find him a mere foot away, closer than she thought he might have dared otherwise, bottle in hand. She hurried to open the door, her eyes pressed shut as she fought to collect herself, to stop herself from doing something very selfish and ill-advised. 

“Sleep well, Daenerys.” She could not stop herself from one long, lingering look, letting her own eyes rest on his lips before meeting his.

“Sleep well, Jon.” Her words escaped in a voice meant for seduction, and she hated her lack of control in this moment, hated that she wanted him to stay.

She hated that she must not, that this was very unlike any other situation she’d found herself in. He was a King, after all, and it was far too soon to risk such pleasures without knowing that she could trust him with herself in that way. 

Daenerys very much doubted she could trust herself with him, not now.

Jon Snow gave her a sweet, reluctant smile and then he was gone, and it did not escape her notice that her hands were shaking slightly as she shut the door, closing herself off to the rest of the world as she pondered what she might do next.

She returned to the shelves, grasping another tonic for herself and downing it in one gulp, depositing it carelessly on the low table against the wall as she began to pace the room, her eyes lingering on the space he had occupied and finally allowing the longing he roused in her to surface.

Then she saw it, his furs, discarded by him halfway through their meal and remaining in her chambers though the man who owned them had left. The urge that seized her was utterly foolish, but the wine seemed to have overridden any good sense she might have had, and so she grasped the heavy cloak, sauntering slowly to her sleeping chambers, knowing he might realize he’d left something behind at any moment but rather sure that he might not risk returning to her this night. There had been something in his own eyes that she had recognized, something that told her he found her dangerous as well.

Daenerys lay the furs on atop her bedding, her eyes tracing the fine stitching as she slowly drew off her tunic and leathers, her teeth biting her lip in a bemused sort of guilt as she climbed up onto the bed beside Jon Snow’s furs. A brief war took place inside her, then, but in the end it was the desire to feel the slick fur and rough fabric upon her skin that won out, and she resolved not to judge herself to harshly as she pulled the heavy garment onto herself like a blanket.

She did not take him into her bed, and she was glad for it, really, but she wrapped herself in him just the same, the scent of leather and fur and something that was solely *him* soothing her drink-addled mind and carrying her off into blissful sleep.

  



	3. Slow and Steady

  
Chapter 3: Slow and Steady  
Summary:

Jon has a morning visitor, an item is returned, and Daenerys is angry.

  
  
Notes:

Thought it might be fun to get some Jon perspective :) May the jonerys magic live on in your hearts as we bear this long hiatus together. Chapter title is yet another song from Of Monsters and Men, from the album "My Head is an Animal".

  
  


Jon awoke with a start, booming thunder ricocheting around the stone walls of his room at such deafening levels that he suspected the entirety of Dragonstone must’ve been awakened by the ruckus. He’d slept better than he had in some time, though he thought the ale, a thoughtful taste of his home, had helped lure him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Daenerys had been correct in her promised cure, as well, and he sat up slowly, wondering at the lack of pounding in his skull that usually accompanied the draining of an entire pitcher of ale on his own. He hoped she had taken some for herself, unless the time she’d spent with Tyrion had increased her tolerance for her Hand’s preferred drink.

Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing heavy hands across his eyes as he peered out the windows carved from the stone walls into the stormy morning skies. He wasn’t sure how late into the day he’d slept, the lack of sun giving him no sign of the hour, but he rose anyway, his stomach rumbling angrily and demanding he feed himself sooner rather than later.

It stormed, he thought, but he would not waste the day, his mind already ticking off the list he started with every day, areas he ought to search in the tunnels that ran under the breadth of the island belonging to the silver-haired Queen, thinking through which groups of men he ought to shift around to begin processing the veins of dragonglass he’d discovered the prior day.

Anything to stop himself from thinking on her.

There was no time for that.

There was no time to sit, lost in thought, and wonder if her hair was as silken to the touch as it looked. It had brushed against him last night, there in her rooms, and as she’d leaned over his shoulder he tried to take in the scent of it, of her, something exotic that was foreign to his senses present as well as something delicate that smelled of wildflowers and lavender.

No, that was something he had no time to ponder. Not now. 

There was no time to wonder if her lips would be as blissfully soft as they looked, though he had come dangerously close to learning their texture last night, there in her rooms. He’d have been a fool not to have noticed how very close her face had been to his, how mere inches had separated those lips that looked soft as the petals of a rose from his. The heat of her breath as she’d whispered to him had been something like a caress all on it’s own.

He refused to dwell on such thoughts.

Kissing the Dragon Queen was not going to help him save his people.

This war was his only mission, his only reason for coming here in the first place.

And if Jon were honest he would steadfastly admit that he was going on this tremendously stupid mission to prove the truth of what came for them all to Daenerys as much as he sought to convince Cersei Lannister.

If Jon were feeling a particular variety of forthrightness he would admit that he cared fuck-all for what that murderous lion bitch thought or said or did, and if she were to find herself standing before him he would love nothing more than to take her head himself.

Jon knew what she had done to his father, after all. The North remembered, and he would greatly enjoy reminding the Lannisters of Casterly Rock of that one immutable fact.

But his war was to the North, not the South.

His war was not the Dragon Queen’s war. Not yet. But perhaps, if he could find a way to survive another excursion beyond the Wall, if he could fulfill his part in Tyrion’s stupid, reckless plan, he could convince her to join him.

That desire, he told himself firmly, had nothing to do with the fact that he’d privately thought he might give his sword hand just to have Daenerys Targaryen for himself. Just once. Thus far, he had managed to keep himself from relieving the persistent desire she’d sparked within him. Jon knew, for a certainty, that giving into such thoughts would only ensure he was never able to look her in the eye, as if she would know just from looking at him that he’d succumbed to the need to pleasure himself while thinking on her. Such thoughts were foolish and he was nothing more than the Bastard King of the North. He knew, though it would likely not improve his position amongst the Queen and her allies, that his rule was tenuous at best.

The truth was he couldn’t care about that. He only needed to be King for as long as it took to save the North or die trying. Then Sansa, or Arya, or even Bran could have the title and the accompanying bullshit that went with it, and he would hope only for rest, for an end to the fighting that had consumed his life.

He was pondering these dark thoughts when a firm knock sounded at the door, and he hastily grabbed for a tunic, pulling it over his head and stepping into his trousers before calling out a hasty “Enter!”.

Jon had only a moment to register the door opening and then there she was, the very focus of his erstwhile thoughts, sauntering into his room, so beautiful he could not bear to look upon her for more than a heartbeat before he was forcing himself to look at anything else, anything but her.

She had a beautiful smile. He had not seen it before last night, but now that it had he could not stop the remembrance as she stood before him, smiling once more but with an edge of slyness that he did not understand until he saw his furs folded over her arm.

She was never going to be his, and he ought to remember that. Wanting things he could never have was something he’d outgrown as a boy.

The boy in Jon Snow had died there at Castle Black.

He cleared his throat, eyes locking with hers, a tension thick with something a bastard such as him dared not guess at as she silently handed him the bundle of fabric, the cloak Sansa had fashioned to look like his Lord Father’s, and he could not stop himself from giving her a small smile in return as he clutched the furs to his chest.

“You should take better care of your things, Jon Snow.” She stepped closer, clad once more on the stiff-shouldered coat and trousers she wore every day, a Queen once more instead of the infinitely less intimidating woman he’d dined with the past evening.

This was better, he thought, shaking out the furs and leaving them to lay across the back of the wooden chair that accompanied the desk against one of the walls. He could behave himself properly around the Dragon Queen, with her capes and her chains and her air of authority.

Daenerys, he had discovered, was an altogether different flavor of intimidation, one he longed to taste with his tongue and lips; she was softer, she was agonizingly lovely. The slight, simply dressed woman he’d dined with last night had seemed at ease with him, and she laughed at his stories and acted as though she enjoyed his company, and she was a danger to every motivation he’d had for coming to this blasted place.

Jon pulled on his gambeson swiftly, his back still to the Queen, the course of his thoughts pushing his body to betray him at a most inopportune time. He only turned to face her when he’d secured the garment, hiding his rather embarrassing state from those violet eyes of hers, surprised to find she was paying him no mind at all. Instead she was looking searchingly around his room, her eyes narrowing as she finally gazed his way.

“These are the quarters Tyrion gave you when you first arrived?” She gestured her finger about in a circle, something ominous in her tone.

At his nod, she ground out her words, clearly irritated, but Jon wasn’t entirely certain why as he looked around his quarters himself. “I see. And your Hand, King in the North. Do you know where he rooms?”

Jon warily led her through his door and to the room across the hall, swinging open the door to reveal the chamber Ser Davos had made a temporary home in their time on Dragonstone. He was confused, to be sure, watching her fists clench and unclench, feeling an ache at the familiarity of the gesture. He did such himself, at first to keep his injured hand condition to grasp his sword, but now something he did unconsciously when he was anxious, or angry.

“This…this is unacceptable, Jon Snow.” Daenerys was angry, very angry, angry in a way he had not seen since that day on the beach, when she’d learned of the fate of House Tyrell and asked him, of all people, for counsel on her next move in the war she found herself embroiled in, the war to take back her family’s Throne. “I must confess I have never visited this area of the Keep, but had I known my Hand had forced such lowly accommodations on you I would have remedied this sooner. I apologize for his rather large lapse in judgment.”

If she had been beautiful last night, the firelight flickering upon her face, utterly relaxed in his company, then she was just as beautiful now, if not moreso. A beautiful, terrifying warrior that mesmerized him, that raged out of some misplaced sense of hospitality on his behalf, of all things.

She needn’t. The room he currently occupied was no smaller than the room he’d taken at Winterfell, and probably three times the size of the room he’d had as a boy in that same Keep. And he wanted to say so, to comfort her with that, but just thinking the words sounded so utterly pathetic that he could only manage what few words his mind told him to put forward, to end her tirade before she worked herself into an angrier state.

“I assure you, these accommodations have been more than suitable, Your Grace.” Her gaze was on him, focused so intently that he had to escape, and he stepped into his rooms once more, taking a seat at the end of his bed to pull his boots on, needing something to distract him from the much more pleasant task of watching her, of tracing the lines of her body with his eyes and wondering if she was as remarkable to look upon unclothed as she was fully dressed.

“No.” She spoke firmly, her tone suggesting he’d be better off brooking no further argument. Jon settled for a bemused exhale, rising to grasp his furs and swinging the heavy material into his shoulders, fastening the straps reflexively as the Dragon Queen watched, something unfamiliar sparking in the depths of eyes as purple as an amethyst as she stepped close.

“You will dine with me tonight. Perhaps you can explain to me then why you would present yourself to me as the King in the North, the King your people chose…” She trailed off, her eyes flitting about the room once more before she continued, “And yet you would call servants quarters perfectly acceptable.”

“If you wish.” The words escaped before he could stop them, before his mind could tell him all the reasons it was unwise to be alone with her again, to be in her chambers with her so unbound and open to him. It gave him ideas he had no right having, but his heart and probably a few other parts of him would see him do exactly that.

Now she smiled at him, warmth creeping in and banking the fiery anger that had consumed her moments before. “Until this evening then.” She made her way to the door, turning back once to flash a smile of such purely feminine grace that he fancied his knees went a bit weak with it. “Jon.”

She was gone, then, and he simply stood for a moment, replaying the entire scene in his mind, not realizing until he worked through it all again that his room smelled of her now. He needed to leave before his traitorous body delayed him from much more honorable tasks that needed accomplishing.

But the scent of her lingered, and it was not until he had reached the mines, escaping the rains that still fell, that he realized that it hadn’t been his room that smelled of her at all.

It was his cloak.

He would not think on just how that could be, how it could have come to pass that his furs would be so wholly full of the scent of the woman he had come to have a great deal of respect for in relatively short order, this Dragon Queen who inspired such devotion in those who followed her, this goddess who brought on such intense desire within him that thoughts of her plagued him almost every night.

Jon could consider the circumstances later, but for now he would be content that at least for today he would be surrounded by her, and hope it made his day a bit more bearable.

  



	4. King and Lionheart

  
Chapter 4: King and Lionheart  
Summary:

Another chat with Theon, some dragon bonding, and some kissy face to allow for some smutty thoughts next chapter. It's a build, pals, enjoy the slow burn. I have aloe right here if it's too intense.

  
  
Notes:

Another title from Of Monsters and Men, "My Head is an Animal"? Check

Another chapter in which I still do not own the above mentioned music OR the characters within? Unfortunately, Check

Do they finally fucking kiss, at least? ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY THEY DO

But smut? Where is it? Next chapter, Jon may be cool as ice on the inside but you and I know he's gonna be shook AF by the end of this chapter

I hope you like! I live to entertain myself and you! Yes YOU stop looking around like a weirdo.

  
  


Daenerys had managed to compose herself by the time Theon Greyjoy made his way to her council chambers, and she stood alone by the large, arched window, having already dispatched Missandei to procure quarters for their far-too-humble Northern guest while she awaited the Ironborn lord.

He was just as quiet and meek as he had been previously, eyes downcast as she turned at the sound of the opening door, hinges creaking loudly as the slight man entered and took a seat at her waving gesture.

“Your Grace.” A deferential dip of his head and finally those watery blue eyes met hers, but today he seemed, at least in this moment, less fearful of looking at her directly.

She gave a slight smile. “Lord Greyjoy. Thank you for joining me. I fear I have a few more questions for you today, if you are willing to share your counsel, that is?”

Theon, for his part, didn’t look at all surprised, giving a slight curl of his lips. “About Jon?”

Daenerys nodded. “Yes. I learned this morning that he and his Hand had been lodging in the servant’s wing, and I suspect I know the answer, but I must ask of you: why would he not have complained about such?”

The scruffy man before her gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. “That’s what I was trying to explain yesterday. Did a piss-poor job of it, it seems.” Theon gave a heavy exhale and reached out to trace his finger along the carved surface of the table before him. “Have you spent much time amongst highborns, Your Grace?”

“Not many, I suppose. Why?” She felt her eyebrow arch as she gazed steadily at the man, wondering at the full grin he now sported.

“I’m sure plenty of ‘em might have been offended at such lodgings. Would’ve been an insult to their fragile little egos. Most of the Great Houses are led by weak men with soft hands and softer pride.” Theon cleared his throat. “What you must understand about Jon…really, about Northerners, I suppose, is that the North doesn’t suffer weakness. It’s a hard place, with hard people. They’re fighters, warriors.” Blue eyes met hers once more, and she knew he spoke the truth. The North, she had learned from those who had offered insight prior to the King’s arrival, did not grow things as they did in the Reach. They did not harbor veins of gold and gems as they did at Casterly Rock. It was soldiers the North made, and even her ancestors had entreated the Winter Kings for aid during times of war.

“If I were to guess, I would say Jon’s slept in much worse conditions. I’ve heard tell that he lived beyond the Wall for a few years, even, amongst the wildlings. The Free Folk, they call themselves.” Theon scratched at his neck, averting his eyes to the fire as he continued. “And I know he did not have fine quarters to call his own when we were lads, just a little room with a narrow bunk.” Sadness crept over the man’s face now, so profound it was clear even from the small distance that separated the two. “I certainly gave him enough shit about that, when we were small.”

Daenerys felt sick; she knew she must steer the conversation elsewhere lest she find her ire raised once more, the temptation to lash out at Theon for his past wrongs against the King in the North sending her pulse pounding in her ears. She took a deep breath to steady herself, as it was not her place to seek vengeance for the boy that Jon Snow had been, and in truth she thought perhaps Theon Greyjoy might have already been punished enough, at least on that score.

“Tell me of the King’s sisters, if you would. You helped his sister Sansa escape from the Bolton man, yes?” She regretted the question as soon as it had passed her lips, tears gathering in Theon’s eyes and his teeth sneaking out to worry his lower lip. He seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes growing haunted, and it looked to her that he had to compose himself before he could answer, his voice shaking as he forced the words forth.

“Sansa.” He shook his head, as if fighting of some terrible memory. “She’s a sweet girl. Or she was.” He gulped heavily, speaking quickly as though he could not stop himself once the words leapt from his tongue. “The things he did to her, Your Grace. Ramsay Bolton tortured me, that’s true, and mutilated me.” Now he put his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees as if he could not bear to keep his eyes open. “But he did things to her that no man should do to any woman. And he did them in her home. The only place she’d ever been safe.”

Suddenly his head shot up, nostrils flaring in anger as he slammed his fist on the table. “But he didn’t fucking break her. They’re strong, Your Grace, all of them, and she may be the most proper but she’s got steel in her veins just like the rest of ‘em.”

Daenerys had heard whispers. She had expected what Theon told her. But she had spent her life searching for home, whatever that truly meant, and she could not begin to comprehend what it must be like to have had such a place, full of happy memories, and family, and then to have it twisted and ruined beyond comprehension. She felt a wave of sharp pity for this Lady of Winterfell, empathy warring with anger that there seemed to be no place free from the terror visited upon girls who could not defend themselves.

She pushed past such thoughts, clearing the lump that had formed in her own throat. “And Arya?”

The name seemed to shake Theon Greyjoy from his emotional stupor, the man managing a shaky laugh as he scrubbed the heel of his hands across his eyes. “If Sansa was the proper one, Arya was the opposite. All she wanted to do was fight, like her brothers. And if she’s still alive? She’s bound to be ten times as fierce as she was when she was little.” He chuckled, raising his gaze to hers. “Jon gave her a sword, did you know that? Had one made for her, before the girls went with Lord Stark to King’s Landing. Robb heard him planning it with the blacksmith at Winterfell.” 

She thought to herself that she really ought to stop expecting Jon Snow to be normal and ordinary and predictable, because every time she learned another nugget of information about him he proved to be anything but. She drummed her fingers on the table, lost in thought, only halting the motion at the sound of Theon’s voice piercing the silence.

“Your Grace?” She looked up, realizing that for a moment she’d forgotten he was even there, so preoccupied she was with fitting all these scattered pieces that were the truth of Jon Snow together in her mind, the picture becoming clearer as each new detail sharpened the image of him in her mind.

A comely face was nothing new, really. She’d seen plenty. She’d become rather used to the knowledge that she could have any man she wanted, should she wish it. But she felt a growing apprehension that she wanted the King in the North in a way that was different. She wanted all of him, some silly girl inside desiring nothing more than to drown herself in him, to hold him very close to her, because he was not like everyone else. 

Theon Greyjoy spoke once more, oblivious to the turmoil that raged within the Queen. “Do you…care for him? Jon, I mean.”

“He is a potential ally, and frankly speaking, the only ally powerful enough to inspire the allegiance of the other Great Houses to join their forces to my cause, not to mention whatever forces remain in the North. Tyrion has explained as much to me, that House Stark commands a great deal of respect in Westeros, even amongst their enemies.” She watched as Theon nodded thoughtfully, then as the man scratched at his chin absently before he spoke, as though he were searching for the right words.

“That’s true enough.” Lord Greyjoy grimaced, his voice hesitant now. “He will do what he must to protect his people, especially his family. If you were to make it clear that you were open to,” he paused, “other methods of securing an alliance with him, that a path existed for him to do his duty in a manner that would not require him to bend the knee, then I suspect you would find him willing enough.” Now Theon rose, pacing before the fire now as she watched with keen interest, his words sending a shameful thrill through her, prompting her to ponder what it might be like, if he were hers.

But now he turned, abruptly, his words halting but sure. “But if you wish for things that a woman might wish for from a man, Your Grace, well…” His voice trailed off, a slight smirk on his face. “If you’re waiting on Jon to make the first move, I fear you’re going to be waiting for quite some time.”

Daenerys felt her cheeks flush with warmth, suddenly wanting to be away from Theon Greyjoy’s scrutinizing gaze, ready to be alone with her thoughts and formulate a plan. She stood, hands sliding down to smooth the wrinkles from her skirts before clasping her hands together before her, the picture of propriety as she glanced at first Lord Greyjoy and then the door of her council chambers.

“That will be all, my Lord. I thank you for your counsel.” The Queen watched in silence as he left, her mind feverishly chastising her heart for the foolish course she was about to take, knowing all the while she could not help but take it anyway.

\------------

If Jon Snow was surprised to find her outside his new chambers well before nightfall he was marvelously good at hiding it, his eyebrows barely raising as he opened the door to find her there, dressed much as she had been the prior night, a simple tunic and leathers. For a heartbeat, though, a quiet fluid moment that she committed to memory as best she could, he looked upon her as though she wore the finest silks, an awe-filled glance of appreciation at what he saw that made her regretful for the first time in a very long time that she was Daenerys Stormborn and all her assorted titles and names.

That, if she were to be blunt with herself, was the most distressing thing about Jon Snow. The more time she spent in his company the more she wished things were simpler between them, that he could be just a man and she just a woman, that they were free to indulge in the sorts of lust-filled imaginings she had conjured forth in the time she had known him.

His hair was wet, she noted, still pulled back in the manner he always wore it, but it struck her now that she had never seen it loose, and she very much wanted to. He’d probably been to the baths, judging by the fresh clothes he seemed to have donned.

That was an unsafe thought, and she pushed it down where it belonged, sequestered away with all her other dangerous notions, somewhere deep inside the heart she’d doubted she possessed when she’d left Meereen, when she had so easily dismissed the affections of a man who’d sworn he loved her. She had not returned the sentiment, and while it had troubled her she’d thought it a blessing at the time, that being rid of such troublesome emotions as love would make it easier to devote herself to the task of ruling.

She was very, very afraid that she had been wrong.

Jon Snow made her ache in places she’d be best to leave alone, not only in her heart, whatever remained of that useless lump in her chest, but areas in her traitorous body that had been neglected for a considerable amount of time.

Daenerys knew how to keep those things from showing on her face, and so she entered at the sweep of his hands, looking about his new quarters, well-appointed but suspiciously empty of personal items save for a battered trunk against the wall and a few items of clothing and armor. He muttered a self-conscious “Sorry” as he made haste to put on the rest of his clothing, which she dismissed with a wave of her hand and a smile. Instead she stood silently, looking about and sneaking glances as he tossed his sword belt upon the large wooden dresser that dominated one corner of the room and struggled to fasten the buckles at the shoulders of armor he’d slid on over his own thin tunic, trying not to stare too obviously at the way the muscles in his arms bunched as he fought.

She couldn’t stop her wayward feet from closing the distance, her hands reaching to assist him as she drew close behind him, and it did not escape her that he stilled and tensed at her touch. “Do you normally have assistance with armor such as this?”

A shudder went through him, slight but there all the same, only noticeable because she had her hands upon him, and she really ought to know better than this. She ought to step back, but she did not, reaching for his other shoulder and stepping into him at his side so that she could see his face as he responded, wanting nothing more than the confirmation she sought, that he was equally as affected by him as he was by her.

Daenerys received it in the shaky exhalation of breath that he loosened, in the way he tensed his jaw before he turned his head to see her more fully as her nimble fingers made short work of the buckle on this shoulder as well.

“Not generally, but I fear I have not worn this often.” His fingers tapped the leather against his chest as he looked at her. “Your Lady Missandei pointed out to me that my other set had a great deal of blood still staining it in places, and insisted she take it for cleaning.” Her hands lingered longer than they should, there against the muscular shoulder beneath her palms, but he did not seem to mind as he continued. “I hope that is acceptable, I would not wish to impose on your people for my own needs. But to be honest, it’s dreadfully hard to get blood out of leather.”

She tipped her head, letting out a knowing laugh and squeezing his shoulder once before snatching back her wandering, misbehaving hands. “Yes. It is.”

The King in the North took his turn examining her now, his eyes holding hers with those wolfish grey eyes as he reached for his sword belt, strapping it on hastily. “I suspect you’ve learned that the hard way, just as I have.”

“Indeed I have. It is also dreadfully hard to remove it from silk, which is probably why I have found it best to forgo such finery in recent years.” She had to look away, had to focus on anything but him, now and the thoughts she was allowing to creep into her fickle mind, thoughts of her silken dresses and this young King before her stripping them from her slowly, taking hours to touch all of her in what she very much thought would be an enjoyable way to spend her idle hours.

The Queen scolded herself, remembering her task and adopting a friendly, congenial air now that he had finished putting on his many layers. “Apologies for arriving at such an earlier hour than was agreed upon, but there is a task that I fear I must ask you to assist me with.” 

Jon Snow’s eyes grew large, the tension between them dissolving as he seemed to welcome such news. “Of course. How can I be of service?”

Daenerys began walking, her hand snaking up to grasp her thick, solid braid and pull it over her shoulder, toying with the end of it as the pair exited the King’s new quarters and made their way through the keep. “Drogon was injured in the fight against the Lannister forces, and I have not been able to examine his wound since my return.” 

He had drawn even with her now, his face concerned as he looked at her. “How badly was he hurt?”

The Queen led him outside, down the stone steps to where her bloodriders waited, two horses saddled and waiting them, just as she’d instructed. She took the reins and dismissed her men, watching Jon as he watched the Dothraki guard retreat, his eyes full of curiosity as she handed a set to him. “Not enough to disable him, but I must check to ensure he is healing, and, of all those who currently dwell on Dragonstone, Jon, you seem to be the only other whose touch he will allow but mine.”

He looked so suitably surprised by her words that she thought he might have tipped over at the mere push of her hand, but at her smile and accompanying shrug he mounted his horse as she did, letting her lead and content to ride in silence until they’d made their way to a rarely travelled area of beach, some distance from the mines he toiled in, an outcropping of stone above a wide, yawning opening.

Daenerys dismounted, then watched as Jon Snow quickly followed suit, his eyes darting around as he seemed to search for her dragons but could find no trace of them. “In there, then?” There was only a slight hint of trepidation, and she wondered where such bravery came from, just as she had when she’d first seen him lay his hand upon her son, marveling that of all the men she’d ever known it was this stubborn man that Drogon had taken a shine to.

She did not comment on it, though, content with grasping his forearms and steering his body to a spot just outside the cave her sons had taken as a den of sorts, not missing his gentle start at her touch on him once more. One more thing to examine later, when he was not before her, looking at her as though he fought not to kiss her then and there.

The Queen distracted herself by calling into the cave for Drogon, his answering grumble alerting her that he was making his way towards her just before his massive snout crept out, letting her slide a soothing palm against the rough skin before he exited fully, crouched upon the sand as he took notice of the man who stood behind her and giving a chirping call at the King.

Daenerys could not say who was more astonished just then, she or Jon, but she was sure it was her as he crept forward, inserting his head between them and giving the King in the North what she knew to be a friendly nudge with his head, and being rather pushy about what he wanted from the man.

The King was unsure, though, until she give him a happy grin and nodded her head towards her remarkably presumptuous son. “He wants you to scratch, Jon.”

That he looked upon her then with such real happiness, as though he could not believe his good fortune, made her throat close a bit. She could not remember anyone wishing to be near her sons, not since they’d grown to such large size, and while she loved them all with a depth she had not known possible, she had learned that being the Mother of Dragons was a sort of self-imposed exile. She had reconciled herself to the fact that others would fear them, and rightly so, but the King in the North was not afraid as he scratched heartily beneath Drogon’s jaw, chuckling as the large black dragon titled his head and gave a whistling purr that made her struggle to catch her breath.

“Keep at it, Jon, and perhaps he will be distracted enough by your attentions that I might check his wound quickly.” Her voice was husky, and she sniffed, wiping surreptitiously at the moisture that had gathered in her eyes once her back was turned to him. At her gentle prompts her son held back his wing, and she pressed her fingertips around the already scabbed puncture that the Lannisters had wrought upon Drogon’s skin. 

She quickly satisfied herself that he was on the mend, taking a moment to glance up at Jon Snow, finding him completely focused on scratching each and every spot Drogon angled for, appearing to be enjoying himself immensely.

It defied explanation. All of it. But it was also irresistible to her, this display between her son and the man she suspected she was growing dangerously attached to, and she knew she ought to put an end to it for the day before she was swept away completely by the sight of the two together.

And so she stood, walking back to join this King who refused to kneel, watching as he noticed her return and drew his hands back quickly, as though he were intruding upon something he ought not to. 

The words to assure him he was not, that in fact she felt a very real sense of wonder at what she witnessed, that he made her feel less alone were not forthcoming or wise, so she settled for a warm smile that he returned, and she gave her wildest son a smooth caress of her hand and wished him farewell, still standing beside the King as they watched Drogon lumbered back into the dark recesses of the cave he’d chosen to nest in.

“Are you not afraid of him, Jon?” Oh, but it was easy to address him as such now, easy to enjoy the way his name tasted upon her tongue, easy to savor the way his eyes locked onto hers each time she spoke the single syllable.

His brow furrowed slightly, and he seemed to think for a moment before he replied, making his way beside her back to the horses who stood waiting. “I have an extremely healthy level of respect for how easily he might kill me, if he wished.” He grinned at her then, an easy and disarming expression upon his face. “But I do not think he wishes to, so in that respect, no, I do not fear him.” His thundercloud eyes glanced back to the cave, an amused tone in his voice when he looked back to her once more. “But I shouldn’t like to make him angry, either, Daenerys.”

Daenerys felt the laugh before it fought it’s way free, now matter how desperately she tried to hold it back, to maintain some semblance of a dignified, unaffected Queen. But it was a battle she lost, and he quickly joined in at the sound of her merry laugh, at the sight of her face as she mounted her horse, her shoulders shaking as she urged her mare forward. “No,” she called to him, looking back to see him quickly mount his own horse and waiting until he pulled even with her, “neither would I.”

\------------

She was commending herself on her mostly proper behavior, making her way back through the Keep with the King, finding her way back to his rooms which were thankfully much closer to her own than his prior quarters.

Jon had grasped the knob, and she’d been a beat away from bidding him farewell and reminding him that they would dine together, when he’d suddenly turned. “Do you think…that is to say, I hope it isn’t a presumptuous request, but…” 

There was a silence that thrilled her as he gazed at her, and her heart beat so loud she thought perhaps he could hear it as she awaited this request, a part of her hoping he might want something very improper as she found herself trapped in a mindset that would agree to such a proposition right now, no matter the wisdom of it.

“…Do you think that tomorrow I might meet your other dragons?” It was not what she had wished to hear, but it was almost more welcome, because in her traitorous heart she knew that perhaps he wished to know her as fully as she wished to know him, and she could not deny that once voiced it was something she very much wanted as well.

She felt overcome by it, and before she knew what she was doing she’d leaned into him, so quickly his back hit the wood of the door, and she’d placed her lips against his in a fevered press that revealed the answer to something she’d pondered for a great deal of time since meeting this comely man.

His lips were every bit as soft as she’d suspected, and she gloried in the feel of it for seconds longer than she should, her hand sliding up to grip the leather at his neck and pulling him to her more fully as she pulled his lower lip between her own before she pulled back slowly. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes darting between his own eyes and those tempting lips of his before releasing her grip at his collar, “you may meet my other dragons, Jon.”

The King in the North seemed to be in a state of shock, the pulse in his neck visible as she leaned back and away to study him. His breath seemed to catch and then he was swallowing, rapidly, color flooding his face as surely as it did hers, but not breaking his gaze. “Thank you.”

“You will still dine with me this evening?” She held her own breath, wondering if her foolish gamble had lost her his friendship, warmth flooding her as he nodded almost forcefully.

Daenerys nodded once, turning to take her leave but pausing only a few steps away. “I do hope you are hungry, Jon.” She risked a glance back, his wide eyes at her words prompting a fit of unsophisticated giggling the moment she rounded the corner.

  



	5. Love, Love, Love

  
Chapter 5: Love Love Love  
Summary:

Jon POV - Another dinner, but it's a spicy meatball this time. A discussion of impossible things.

  
  
Notes:

You know the drill. I wanted this to be smuttier but it was just the right place to stop it, for now. It's a slow burn for a reason, right? But things are heating up! ::wink::

I've decided to make this little meandering a gift for the sweetest bean you've ever seen, the lovely Allegra, who is in my thoughts, and I hope you will offer forth your own prayers (even if it's just to the God of Tits and Wine) to her speedy recovery!

Enjoy!

  
  


He shouldn’t be here.

The thought had echoed through his head for hours, since Daenerys Targaryen had unexpectedly kissed him in front of his chambers, a collection of rooms far larger and grander than any he’d ever had. Jon had paced for a solid hour, at least, if not more, missing Davos sorely for the first time since his Hand’s departure. Though, he’d mused, if Davos *were* here he would surely find Jon’s current situation greatly amusing, as he had seemed intent on pushing the pair together, to what end he did not dare guess.

He should keep his distance, stay away from her, and from whatever this was that had grown between them. 

Jon certainly should not be in *her* chambers, alone save for her, dining once more with the only woman who stood between the survival of their people and a cold torturous death for all those who called the Seven Kingdoms their home.

He took a great gulp of his ale, watching her in small glimpses that did nothing to alleviate this wonderful distress. She had seemed perfectly friendly, almost proper when he’d knocked upon her door, not even Missandei awaiting his arrival as she’d gestured to the table once more laden with food, though not nearly so much as the prior evening. He had been gladdened to see the roasted boar once more, having greatly enjoyed it the night before, along with several of the more foreign dishes that he had found quite pleasing.

It occurred to him, all at once, a lightning strike that sent his heart thundering in his chest, that she must have watched to see what he enjoyed the most.

He should leave, now, before the ale and the company brought forth impulses he had long buried, things which now lingered at the edges of his mind like ghosts, desire and need and an ever-burgeoning hunger growing stronger with each passing day.

Daenerys glanced at him as she took a sip of her wine, the room comfortably quiet as they had dined but now tension growing anew as they looked upon each other in fits and starts.

He should leave because he wanted to kiss her, and that was the least of it. The sorts of things he’d thought of doing with her and to her were many and varied; It wasn’t as though he was some untried boy who’d never lain with a woman, after all. There were things he knew, ways in which he thought he could please her, this fiery tempest trapped inside the loveliest woman in the Realms. It had not occurred to him that any of his imaginings might ever become reality, quite the opposite. But then she’d kissed him and everything inside him had shifted because now his imaginings might actually be possible.

He should leave, but as he’d sat in his room earlier he’d weighed it all out, twisted himself in knots as he wavered between desire and duty, want and war, and whether he should finally allow himself the chance to live, if only for a while.

In her presence he felt alive, real in a way that stole his breath when he thought on it.

Jon knew there existed a very real chance he may not return from this mission, knew better than any here exactly what lay beyond that Wall. But he must know, before he could allow himself such freedom, what it was she wanted of him. That she wanted him at all was the real danger, at least for him, because he feared that if he allowed himself to have her he would be done. There would be no more war, no more Night King, no more anything but the smell and taste and feel of her and her alone. No man could be fool enough to wish for more than that in one lifetime.

He should leave, but he couldn’t. She was a living flame and the heat of it begged him nearer; He was drawn to her despite the risk, perhaps because of it. He would check his own errant impulses, while he still could, and push back the earnest pull of his disused heart as best as he was able.

But Jon knew now, their eyes meeting as she smiled softly at him, fire from the brazier behind him flickering in her eyes, that he would never be able to resist her.

“Do you know why I came here, Jon? To Dragonstone?” She was plucking at the corner of a linen napkin with her fingers, her gaze on her hand as he considered her question.

“It belonged to your family. Or it once did.” Jon placed his ale before him on the table, leaning back and looking around the room. “If I’d spent my life exiled across the Narrow Sea, I should think I would do the same, that I would return to the home of my ancestors.” It occurred to him that this was the wrong response at the flicker of bleak despair that flashed across her face, and he drew in a breath to try to undo whatever his words had wrought within her, but she cut him off quickly with a voice that whispered as the wind did.

“Home.” Daenerys shook her head almost imperceptibly and took a long sip of her wine. He watched her jaw work in silence, a sense that she had more to say keeping his own tongue still. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is, Jon. Not really.” She stared at him for a moment, such sadness in her eyes that he wished he’d never spoken, cursed himself for causing it to appear. “But you are right. I thought Dragonstone would feel like home. It was a foolish notion, I have come to realize that now.”

Jon swallowed hard, glancing at her as he broke the silence that now lingered between them. “Wanting a home is not foolish.”

Daenerys rose slowly, eyeing him before walking the short distance to stand before the hearth, her back to him when she spoke again. “I always thought that home meant a place where one felt safe, protected…loved, even.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, and he could not ignore the silent invitation in her eyes, so he made his way to where she stood, taking a seat in the armchair that was angled to face the crackling flames. 

The Queen just watched his motions, turning away once more when he settled. “I have realized, Jon, that safety is an illusion. It is not real. Not for someone like me. The only protection that exists is that which I make for myself. And love?” Her voice turned brittle now, and weary, and there was a melancholy understanding that flooded him now, because he understood all to well what she meant, listening silently to her words. “There have been those who swore they loved me, but that is the greatest illusion of all. Perhaps they lusted after me, or my power, or wished to say they’d bedded a Queen.”

She crouched before the flames, holding her palms open before the fire, oblivious to the heat. “People fear my dragons, Jon, as well they should. People say they are monsters.” Still she would not look at him, letting out a sigh that held a suspicious shakiness to it, and he wondered if she were crying. “Perhaps they are. I am their mother, and so perhaps I am a monster as well.”

There was an overwhelming urge to correct her, now, to stop this self-demonization, even though this he understood as well. It was a terrible habit of his, to believe the worst of the things whispered about him, even if his mind knew these things were not true. He rose, drawn to her yet again, silencing the warnings his thoughts chided him with, allowing his heart to choose for once. 

Jon did not touch her, nor force her to look at him as he spoke; he stared into the flames as she did, his voice low and quiet. “Your children are not monsters, Daenerys.” He could feel her eyes upon him now but he gazed steadily into the flames, the licking tendrils of orange and yellow almost hypnotizing. “Neither are you.”

Now he turned his head ever so slightly, just catching the way she looked at him in faint wonder before her own gaze returned to the fire, and he had the heartbreaking thought that perhaps no one had ever told her that. But it was the truth, so far as his opinion mattered in the grand scheme of things. And maybe the opinion of a Bastard King mattered little, but he hoped it might matter to her.

Daenerys finally sat, folding her legs in and wrapping her arms around her knees, her chin resting upon them for several minutes before she asked a question that shook him to his core.

“You think I don’t believe you, don’t you? About the White Walkers and the Night King?” He seated himself, mirroring her pose, thinking on her question before he looked to her, only to find her watching him with careful eyes.

“I’m…not sure.” She stared at him, hard, and Jon wondered if she could see right through him, could see the part of him that had desperately hoped that this Queen who’d brought dragons back to Westeros might have seen enough wonders to believe that the horrors he warned of were real, even if no one else did.

“Is that why you are going on this exceedingly ill-advised mission? To convince me?”

He did not want to lie, hated it, and there was a deadly edge in her soft voice that warned him not to, that she might know if he did. He sighed, dreading what his answer might prompt in return. “Perhaps. In part.”

Daenerys nodded as if she had expected exactly that, her hand trailing up to curl the end of her silver braid around and through her fingers, an act he had seen enough now that he wondered if this was what she did when she was upset, or nervous.

“I believe you, Jon. But my belief is not enough. But Cersei must believe it as well else I will be abandoning the South to her mercy. And she will kill as many as she must to maintain her grip on the Iron Throne.” He was flooded with such a potent mixture of relief and horror that he had to close his eyes against it, because she was right. Cersei was a monster, he knew that well, and sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t spare more lives for Daenerys to take King’s Landing as she’d wanted to that day on the beach.

He had not found the words to reply before she was draining the last of her wine in a single gulp, setting the goblet beside her and rising to her knees before the hearth, close enough to the fire that he worried she might stumble into it if she did not take care.

“I think something impossible happened to you, Jon.” She said it in a whisper, so quiet he almost missed it, but her words slammed into him like the powerful waves that beat against the shore below the keep, pulling him down into a pit of misery and despair and his own private loneliness. He could not tell her, could not expect her to put her trust in a bastard who’d been betrayed by his own men, could not expect even the Dragon Queen to believe the truth of what had happened to him at Castle Black. 

He wished she did not want to know.

He wished that he could bring himself to tell her the awful truth of it.

He wished she did not gaze at him like she knew exactly what Ser Davos had meant, and what he’d almost said, that day of their first meeting.

He wished she would always look at him so, as if she understood him in a way no one else did.

All he could do was sit in silence as she inched closer to him, now before him in the small space between his booted feet and the flames, as if she did not feel the heat at all as it raged like a furnace behind her.

Daenerys Targaryen gave him a small, understanding smile, and he’d never wanted to kiss someone so much in all his life, but he sat, mute and still as stone, as she stared into his eyes, her voice still a whisper. “I will not press you further on the matter, Jon. Your secrets are yours to share, just as mine are. But…” His eyes traced the delicate column of her throat as her head turned, her attention on the flames for a moment before she shifted back to face him. “I will show you something, so that you may know.”

“Know what?” He barely managed to breathe the words out, intoxicated by how close she dared to approach him, how beautiful she was, how very different she was from anyone he’d ever know.

“That I am capable of believing many impossible things.” And then she turned, twisting at the waist and plunging her hands into the flames, tracing fingers along the charred logs as he felt his eyes widen to embarrassing proportions.

She had the temerity to chuckle at him, amused at his shock, but once his initial fear for her safety had dissipated he knelt himself, bringing his head as close to the hearth as he dared to see her fingers still playing in the flames.

“Not just a name, then.” Everything about her was impossible, this thing between them was impossible, but Jon was finding it very hard to care anymore. Jon watched in amazement as she pulled her hands free, straightening to hold her hands before his face, and he was helpless to fight the impulse to take her hands within his own, her flesh hot but not unpleasantly so, the back of her hands soft as silk, the skin of her palms rougher than befit a lady or a Queen, but unsurprising to him all the same. She was no ordinary woman. She commanded dragons.

Daenerys pulled her hands from his gently, and he feared he had overstepped, taken liberties where he should not, but then…

Oh, then her lips were upon his and he was lost, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, everything within him focused on the feel of it, of those lips like rose petals, soft and sweet and heated with the fire that lived inside her. And for once he would be selfish, and it was the last thought he was capable of before he let himself touch her, let his hands sweep up the length of her spine to her shoulders, to be the one to pull her closer this time.

She moaned, her tongue slipping out to taste his lips now as well, and he mindlessly opened his mouth to the invasion, the ale and the magic of her, of what he had seen setting something within him free to taste her in return, to tease his tongue against hers, taking her face between his palms now to keep her close, not yet willing to let her retreat. She felt so perfect against him, as if she had been made to be fitted tight to his body, but he could only allow himself to savor the feel of her softness against him before his body made it’s own wishes known, his cock hardening in such swift fashion that he knew he’d better take his leave, soon, before he lost whatever restraint was left to him.

It was in that moment that she straddled his thighs, crawling atop him and settling her hips against his in a manner that left no question of his desire for her, and as she froze at the contact he grudgingly pulled his lips from hers, looking down as he fought to bring his breathing back under control, shame keeping his eyes averted from hers. Daenerys did not move, and he selfishly reveled in the feel of it, the pressure of her slim body bearing down upon his hardness with agonizing sweetness. Suddenly she rolled her hips against his, slowly, deliberately, and his eyes shot to hers in disbelief.

It was all there, in her eyes. She wanted him, and she was making no effort to hide her desire in that regard, but when she leaned closer he heard the regret in her voice, her lips so close to his ear he could feel the heat of her breath. “You should leave now, Jon.”

As soon as she began to lift herself from him he was struggling to stand, fear gripping him that he had been so horrendously improper that meeting her other dragons tomorrow could possibly mean a fiery death, and he made short work of grasping his furs and marching to the door, his voice rough with shame as he managed a hoarse reply over his shoulder. “Apologies if I have offended you, Your Grace.”

His hand was grasping at the knob when hers shot past him, her palm flat against the wood of the door so that he could not throw it open and escape. “Turn around, Jon.”

And Jon did, slowly, anger building inside him that she would not let him do as she asked. “You did not let me finish. You should leave…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes everywhere now, locking with his own, then his lips, then trailing down his body with a wantonness that only served to arouse him further. “If you do not I fear I will do things I should not, want things I should not from you. You should leave because I am too selfish to stop myself tonight and I fear I would dishonor you.”

Jon could only stare at her owlishly, his body screaming at him to tell him it didn’t matter, any of it, that he would rather die knowing the truth of this, that his hands ached to know the shape of her, that his eyes wanted nothing more than to look upon her bare before him, that if he could only bury himself within the heat of her he could face this impossible task without regret.

“I shall see you in the morning, Jon. I pray you sleep well.” She pulled her palm from the door, stepping back enough to allow him to leave, relief and regret making his head ache as he replied.

“Good night, Daenerys.”

He left, knowing by the time he reached his own chambers, by the time he sagged against his own door, his rooms dark and silent, that he very much doubted he would sleep at all.

  



	6. From Finner

  
Chapter 6: From Finner  
Summary:

::finger guns:: Here's some naughty business

Same Band, Same Album, Different Song

  
  
Notes:

Not a big chapter but a long overdue smutty one - next up, Jon and the Dragonboyz chillin' on cliffs and whatnots, just being adorable. Varys has some wisdom to share, as does Theon.

Also - IRL is crazy busy right now, so if I do not get to respond to comments PLEASE know that I am reading them and probably overdosing on joy, I'm just making the call that my limited free time has to go to writing about these little horndogs but I see you and I love you and I would absolutely go capture a white walker for you.

  
  


Daenerys sat in silence, her thin dressing gown providing little shelter from the cool night air in her sleeping chambers, but she did not mind. She was the blood of the dragon, and inside her burned the flame of Old Valyria itself. That provided all the warmth she needed.

She ran her bone-handled comb through her hair, regretting having dismissed Jon Snow so abruptly, but fearful of what she might have done if she had not. She must fight whatever this was that hungered for him so deeply, something almost animal inside her chest and her mind that commanded her to claim him and make him hers.

He was leaving in less than a fortnight, and she suspected there was a good chance he would not return. It would not to do love him only to lose him so swiftly. Her mind was made on that account, and would not be swayed.

But her heart ached for that which she must not allow herself, because in her heart she knew there was something singular to Jon Snow, that he was unlike any other she had known. He was like her dragons, she mused, rising to stand before the great carved window and gazing out at the sky. She had seen him be bold, and reckless, and unashamedly stubborn, that was true. There was a sweetness to him, though, something delicate but resilient, something at the core of him that was truly good.

For as much as he still remained a mystery to her, she was not a mystery to herself, and she knew one truth above all others: If she were to allow herself to have him, she would never be able to let him go.

And she had to.

For his people, and her people, and all the living that remained, she had to let him go.

Daenerys gripped the stone sill before her, squeezing her lids shut against the hot tears that threatened to fall, and then she felt it. She stilled, the sensation of hot, heavy breath on her neck freezing her where she stood, but before she could speak a word in protest there was something new.

A large warm hand was there, calloused and rough, sliding from her exposed shoulder down her arm, taking the comb from her hand and tossing it carelessly aside. “Tell me to leave.” Whispered words caressed the sensitive shell of her ear, lips brushing against the skin before he spoke once more. “Tell me to leave and I will.”

She opened her eyes, still facing the sky and sea, and leaned back, just enough to make contact with his body, to feel the heat of him against her. She had the flame of Old Valyria burning in her heart, that was true, but when his skin touched hers she felt herself blaze to life, every nerve ending alive and aware in a way that was shockingly new. “Stay.” One word, one small whisper of her own and she was slipping her fingers through the closure at the front of her thin gown, shouldering it off as she felt him draw back slightly. The silk slid silently to the floor and the only sound was his gasp, then his groan as his hands roamed the dips and valleys of her, finally touching places that had been hidden to him ‘til now, until it was not enough and too much.

She tried to turn, to see his face and taste his lips, and let her hands roam upon him as his did upon her, but he stopped her before she could, his hands firm at her hips, holding her in place. “Not yet.” He soothed her irritation at his quiet request by letting his lips sample the flesh of her neck, and now she groaned at the flick of his tongue against such tender skin.

“I want to see you, Jon.” He shook his head against her, his teeth biting gently into the spot where neck and shoulder joined, and she could not help but grasp at him, her hand drifting up to slide through his unbound hair and hold him to her, despite his refusal of her wishes. Daenerys meant to argue, truly she did, but then he pressed fully against her back, all hard muscle and firm skin, and as wonderfully unclothed as she was. 

“You are not ready to see me. Not now.” One of those talented hands slid slowly up the concave of her waist, teasing the sensitive underside of her breast before palming the full weight of it. Her silver head tipped back as she moaned, coming to rest against a strong shoulder as he tweaked one hardened nipple between two fingers before smoothing his thumb in a soothing circle against it. This quiet, stoic man was toying with her now, both hands beginning a torturous circuit between her breasts and hips, his fingertips gliding down her breast bone and dipping into the hollow of her navel, teasing just above the juncture of her thighs before rising once more, and had she been aware of anything but his hands on her skin she might’ve blushed at the heated moans and plaintive cries issuing forth from her mouth.

Her gasps and shudders only seemed to stir him into firmer, more demanding strokes; now he pinched and pulled and squeezed with such delightful roughness that she was crying out his name, arching against him, the thick hardness of his cock sliding against the small of her back with each touch, her own hands grasping the narrow hips behind her to keep him there, with her, on the edge of the pleasure she desperately craved. 

“I want to touch you.” She traced her left hand along the hard ridge of his hip bone, intent on grasping that hard, hungry length of him in her fist, mindless of nothing but the need to enflame him as he did to her, but again he thwarted her, his wide palm flat against her stomach in an instant, pulling her entire torso flush against his chest and hips.

“You will. I would be yours if you wished it, my Queen.” She was panting as he whispered in her ear, pliant in his arms as one hand resumed it’s assault upon her breast, the other sliding down, down until he was parting her slick folds with one finger, probing her wet center in such delicious fashion that she felt herself burning once more, everything narrowing to the play of his hand as he teased her. “But you are not ready, nor am I.”

“I beg to differ.” She nearly choked on her urgent words as he slid a long finger inside her, as she felt her walls clench at the invasion, gripping him tightly to keep him inside her, wanting more, wanting all that he could give her. There was a chuckle that was almost pleased as he began thrusting against her, his hand in concert with an artful thumb that circled the sensitive bud just above, and she could feel the tension building inside her, coiling tightly, his cock sliding against her in the rhythm his hand set. His mouth began a frenzied, biting journey against her slim shoulders, the nape of her neck, anywhere it could reach and then it was two fingers, filling her and stretching her, and she could hold back no longer.

She came against his hand with a keening cry, almost sobbing with the relief of it, his own moans fueling her ardor as she bucked and ground against him, her hips jerking and thighs trembling as she rode wave after wave of clenching release, their skin slick with sweat as they moved.

His lips were at her ear, once more, her heart a drumbeat that pounded through her head. “Wake up, My Queen.”

\---------------

It was the knocking that finally jolted her awake, firm and rapid against her chamber doors, and she rose on shaky legs to find a worried Missandei awaiting her.

“Your Grace…are you well? You seem flushed.” She tried to avoid that curious golden gaze as she turned, taking several steadying breaths to clear her head, to separate dream from reality, to reconcile that what had felt so very real was only fancy, a whimsical jaunt of her mind.

Jon Snow had not come to her quarters at all.

She wanted to cry, she realized with some small amount of horror, taking a seat before her dressing table as Missandei came behind her, beginning to brush out her hair and prepare her for the day. “I am well, my friend. Merely restless dreams.”

Daenerys looked up to find that Missandei studied her still, frowning slightly and tipping her head to the side for several moments before something that looked like comprehension flared in her eyes, and her lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “*Restless dreams*, Your Grace? Did they concern any of our guests, by chance?”

Her advisor’s tone chafed at her, just for a moment; That she was so easily read made her worry that Jon Snow might deduce such as well, though there was no way he could, in truth. It wasn’t as though he would look upon her this morning and know, as she took him to the cliffs to meet her other sons, that she dreamt of him in such improper fashion.

This would be her secret, for now, because in her dreams he had been right. She was not ready to truly have him. It was as she had already deduced, though she would never say it aloud: if she let herself have him, if she let herself belong to him, if he belonged to her, she would not be strong enough to let him leave her.

Once he was hers, she would never let him go.

  



	7. Mountain Sound

  
Chapter 7: Mountain Sound  
Summary:

Dragon bonding and meetings and canceled plans with our favorite pair of little beans

  
  
Notes:

SO - the Jon smut I had in here just didn't quite fit but fear not, we will be opening our next chapter with some relief for our favorite Coverboy. Until then, I hope you enjoy the contents herein, as our hero and heroine work diligently towards strengthening their strategic military alliance. (Making out, basically, you'll understand). But know that I love you all very much and you are all special to me and we'll all definitely get it on together with Jonno next chapter, starting it off with a bang!

  
  


Missandei accompanied her to where Jon Snow stood waiting on the cliffs, and she was glad for it in the aftermath of what she dreamt, feeling out of sorts and off-balance at the prospect of seeing him again. Although she knew, or at least suspected, that he desired her in the way that she desired him there was something daunting about facing him in the light of day.

He was her equal, she had realized, a King where she was a Queen, a man who actually deserved such a title even if he had no want for it. She did not have the sort of power over him that she commanded from others, though he might disagree with that sentiment. She felt an unfamiliar weakness when she was around him, something that coated every interaction with a tinge of shyness.

Daenerys kept her chin up, granting him a cordial quirk of her lips in greeting and bidding Missandei farewell before turning to face the open sea stretched before them, feeling about with her mind and her heart to find her sons and call them to her.

“Are you nervous, Jon?” Now she looked directly in his eyes, something liquid tracing down her spine the way his fingers had as she’d dreamt, and she cleared her throat daintily in an effort to remind herself refrain from such before her dragons landed. She would need to be firmly in control of herself and her emotions lest they react to whatever discomfort they might sense from her.

“No.” Those wolf eyes looked back out towards the ocean, then shot back to hers as if he were startled. “Should I be?”

The Queen furrowed her brow, thinking on this undertaking once more, finding no hesitation even now at the idea of Rhaegal and Viserion meeting this quiet King. If Drogon had permitted his touch, especially while injured, then she did not believe that her other two sons would pose any real threat. But she still felt a bit off, needing to dispel with the tension that gathered about her like a storm cloud, and so she arched a brow at him, giving him a sly smile.

“I hope not.” At his furrowed brow and worried frown she laughed, watching as he realized she only jested, which only made his frown all the deeper, his head dipping slightly as he studied her with what looked like hurt and disappointment.

“That wasn’t very nice.” He shook his head, his face still stern as he looked away from her, and she found herself grasping his arm, sure she had truly offended him, ignoring the stirring of desire she felt at touching him so personally. He finally glanced back at her.

And the rotten man was laughing silently as he saw her worried expression, chuckling audibly when she clucked her tongue at him in censure. “It’s rather unkind to tease your guests, although I’m sure it’s also displeasing to have them return the favor.” 

She narrowed her eyes, fighting her amusement that he’d managed to fool her, though it wasn’t hard to do, she supposed. He quiet often looked as though he were ready to jump from the cliffs in despair. “It’s very unkind to do so when you’ve fooled your companions into believing you are only capable of brooding, King in the North.”

Jon Snow merely shrugged, a slight smile on his face as he watched her sons wing their way towards the Keep, lazily circling as they banked to land. “I find it best to be underestimated if at all possible.”

“I’m afraid that tactic will no longer work with me, Jon.” Any reply he might have had was muted by the thundering shudder of impact, all the dragons landing and crawling forward with Drogon leading the way. It was curious, however, that while the black dragon had shown keen interest in Jon Snow before he gave the pair only a cursory sniff in greeting, then took himself a distance away and regarded them with interest.

Rhaegal and Viserion, while less bold than their brother, certainly seemed intrigued by the man beside her, but did not approach him straight away. Viserion hung back and watched as Rhaegal, her quiet boy, her calculating son crept forward, stopping and starting several times as he scented the air, finally drawing close enough to give Daenerys a sweet nudge with his snout before turning his large, golden eyes to Jon Snow.

The King, for his part, seemed entranced, his eyes full of wonder as he pulled of his glove, holding his hand before her green dragon and not daring to move until Rhaegal had closed the distance between them, his breath sighing out in awe as his palm finally made contact with the massive snout before them. “He’s magnificent.” 

Even more curious was that Rhaegal seemed to feel the same, his pupils wide and a contented purr whistling out as Jon scratched, those same places he had with Drogon days before, a sound almost like a moan of approval billowing out from between those huge jaws. They remained that way for several moments, and she kept her silence, her eyes watching every move and tilt of the head and slide of the hand, watching her son’s reaction to this improbable man doing something she’d have imagined impossible a month ago.

She heard a plaintive screech, turning her head to see Viserion rise on his back legs and flap his wings in earnest, dust clouds billowing as he made his unhappiness with his brother’s greedy demands for affection known. 

Daenerys chided Rhaegal in firm tones as he paid no heed to his brother’s distress, his only focus on Jon Snow and the caress of his hand, with the King looking upon him with rapturous amusement in turn. “You have to give your brother a turn, my sweet.”

Rhaegal ignored her, and she pondered how best to shoo him out of the way when Jon spoke, a few words free before she realized he was addressing her wayward son and not her.

“C’mon then lad, that’s only fair. You’ve got to let him have a turn as well, don’t you think?” His tone was kind, and though Rhaegal let out a steamy huff of exasperation, he followed the King’s request where he had ignored hers, lumbering over the ground to join Drogon and staring back at Jon forlornly, as though he’d had a marvelous treasure and been made to give it up before he was ready.

That sentiment she understood, stepping back a pace to watch the man in profile as Viserion finally crept forward. He was her sweet boy, never rough and rowdy as the other two liked to be, always last to eat, always first to share. He lowered his head almost immediately, crawling forward without even scenting Jon first, almost thrusting his snout against the King’s hand and letting out a pleased purr as Jon gave him the same attention his brothers had received. 

The Queen was glad he could not see her face, then, could not see the tears that had gathered in her eyes, tears she fought to control but which she swiped at furiously once they had escaped. What she was seeing was beyond her comprehension, beyond her most far-fetched hope or dearest wish; She had never expected there to be another living being who would inspire such behavior in her babes, the only she would ever bear.

She had not dared to dream such a man could even exist. It was impossible, or so she had thought.

But such a man was here, and he was named Jon, and right now, in this heartbeat of a second, this sliver of eternity, she was not alone. It was a thrilling notion, presented to her with sad eyes and a gruff voice and a comely face, and she was surprised to find that she could not find it in herself to be threatened by this or what it could mean.

She could only feel joy in her heart as he stroked the scales before him, seeming to have forgotten she was even there, not that she could blame him. Her dragons were massive and imposing and overpowering.

It was not fear that colored his features, and as she stepped closer a laugh, free and reckless, burst forth from Jon Snow. It was so beautiful, and she mused that it was so rare, that she closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her, committing it to memory, her mind feverishly working to store every single second that had passed so that she may comfort herself with such recollections once he left.

He was leaving, she reminded herself. She must not become too attached.

And neither must her dragons, she realized, her eyes snapping to where Drogon lounged, blissfully unaware of her inner turmoil but heeding her call to take to the skies once more, and to bring his brothers with him. Viserion gave a whine as his brother gave a mighty roar, almost slinking away to where the black dragon was perched on the edge of the cliff, her other sons looking back longingly before leaping after their larger brother.

“That was….strange.” Jon’s face was puzzled, even confused, his eyes darting from his hand to the diminishing forms of the dragons as they flew towards their fishing grounds.

It was not the response she had expected, and as she watched he slowly pulled his glove back on, shaking his head as though he meant to clear it. “In what way?”

Jon Snow stared at her with such intensity that it was overwhelming, his grey gaze pinning her as he seemed to gather his thoughts, but he only spoke once he had looked away and offered his arm, clearly meaning to escort her back to the Keep.

She took it, of course, as propriety demanded, but she did not look away from his face, his hesitation at answering and befuddlement evident.

“I’m not quite sure how to describe it, only that it reminded me of something.” His words only stirred her curiosity further, her eyes begging him to elaborate.

“Reminded you of something?” She kept her voice low, feeling as though he were sharing some secret part of himself with her, his arm warm and solid under her palm as they strode across the grassy clifftop.

“Ghost.” It was a quiet whisper, one the wind nearly snatched away, but she heard it all the same.

“Who?” Finally, he looked upon her, no longer confused but startled instead as he considered her.

“Did Tyrion not tell you? I know he met him, years ago.” At her blank expression he pushed on, apprehension clear on his face. “He’s my Direwolf.”

“Your what?” Her exclamation was louder than she intended but it could not be helped; so far as she knew, when she had made studying the history of all Seven Kingdoms a priority in her rather informal education, Direwolves were extinct and had been for some time, perhaps even longer than dragons.

“Direwolf. Bigger than a regular wolf, but a bit smaller than a horse, I reckon. At least, he is now. He was still a pup when Tyrion saw him.” His words brought her feet to a halt, her mind puzzling through what she knew to be true and yet another impossibility that seemed completely manageable now.

“You have a Direwolf?” He nodded at her question, a bit bemused as she began to pepper him with questions. “Isn’t that the sigil of House Stark?” He nodded again, tapping against the metal gorget around his neck, at the wolves emblazoned on either side. “And he’s as large as a horse?” She felt her eyes growing wider with each question, overwhelmed and intrigued and falling deeper into what they could be by the second.

Jon Snow squinted at her. “Not quite. He was the runt of the litter.”

There was sorrow seeping into his voice, and she understood what that might mean, that perhaps not all his Direwolf’s littermates still existed in the world. And he confirmed it as he continued, unprompted, slowly resuming their walk to the Keep as he stared here and there, anywhere but her.

“We all had one, once. All the Stark children, of course, and me. But as far as I know only Ghost remains.” It was not merely sorrow, but grief, that wrought such misery upon his face, and she wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to make such sadness go away, to hear him laugh as he had before the past had inserted itself firmly in the present.

But Jon Snow was not hers to comfort, not freely, and she settled for a gentle squeeze of her hand against his arm in understanding. “I’m sorry.” She watched his jaw tense and release, over and over, until he raised his free hand to cover hers where it rested against his bicep.

“Thank you.”

Nothing more was said, Jon Snow parting ways with her before the stone stair case that would lead her back to the Keep she was trying to forge into a home, his back straight and his shoulders squared as he marched with purpose to the dragonglass cave that dominated his waking hours. He looked back, once, waving his hand slightly in a gesture of farewell, dipping his head once then disappearing into the dark yawning mouth carved into the stone.

\-------------

Varys awaited her in her council chambers, all smooth shaved skin and shifting eyes, a cloying perfume clinging to his robes as he stood before the fire, a low “Your Grace” the only sound she heard as she and Missandei swept into the room.

“My Lord.” She spied Theon seated in the highbacked armchair she preferred when here alone, reading or thinking in the silence, but she motioned for him to stay seated as she walked a slow, circuitous route around the Painted Table, her eyes locking on to the Spider as he tracked her movements. “You wished to speak? You have information to share?”

The bald man nodded, seating himself at the massive table that dominated the room, withdrawing several scrolls from creamy, voluminous sleeves before selecting one to unroll. “I must say, the King in the North has proven a rather difficult subject as far as information is concerned.” Varys gave her a sly dodge of his eyes. “But, as ever, my little birds have proven as resourceful as was possible.”

Daenerys took a seat at the head of the table, waiting until Missandei and Theon joined her before speaking. “And on the matter of the King’s release from the Night’s Watch?”

Varys looked down at the scroll in his hand. “As you know, Your Grace, the Oath sworn by a Brother of the Night’s Watch is for life.” She could feel her stomach sink, wondering if now she was to learn of some secret terrible flaw that resided in Jon Snow, that he was an oathbreaker and a deserter, whether or not the Lords of the North had decided to hold such against him after Winterfell had been retaken by House Stark. “However,” her eyes shot to his, “it would seem that our visiting King broke no oath at all, if the rumors circulating around Castle Black are to be believed.”

Daenerys exchanged a look with Missandei, who looked lost in thought, pondering the Spider’s words. “But then that would mean…”

“That he died.” Varys nodded grimly, his gaze straying to Theon who looked at the man incredulously.

“Is this man an imposter then?” Missandei’s question did not break the stares of the of the two men in the room, but Theon’s head shook vigorously in the negative.

“That’s Jon, I swear it.” The Ironborn Lord took a great, gasping breath, eyes wide in disbelief. “That can’t be true.”

Daenerys slammed the flat of her hand on the table with a bit of force, the slap of flesh against lacquer bringing all eyes back to her. She fought to contain the tremble in her voice and the quiver of fear in her stomach. “And the circumstances? According to these rumors?”

Varys took a slow, deep breath, something approaching genuine emotion flickering in his eyes. “Murder. His own brothers, in the Watch.” The Spider did not meet her eyes. “They killed him for bringing the wildlings south of the Wall.”

Rage was building inside her, a great and terrible anger that this could even possibly be true. “And do these rumored killers live, my Lord?” Perhaps they all noticed her clenched teeth and her tightly controlled voice, because this perfumed spymaster was almost meek in his reply.

“It is said that when Jon Snow returned to life he punished those who committed the act himself.” Varys lay the scroll down gently, a tremor in his hand. “Hanging.”

She breathed, just tried to exist for a moment, pushed back every impulse that urged to her to find him and shake him and cling to him and beg him not to go, to beg him to stop chasing his own death. At least, now, she understood why he would undertake this mission in the first place. Would a man fear death if he had already felt it’s embrace once?

“And do your rumors speak to how the King in the North was returned to his current state?” Missandei’s voice was a soothing balm next to her, one slim hand snaking out to grasp Daenerys’s under the table, gripping tightly as they both awaited the answer.

At the question the Spider’s eyes narrowed, a tone of great dislike coloring his voice. “The Red Woman. Melisandre. Witnesses swear it was she, and her Lord, who performed such a feat.” The four of them sat in a heavy quiet, thick with uneasy tension, something so thick and suffocating Dany though she might be able to touch it were she to reach a hand into the air surrounding her.

“Do you believe these rumors, my Lord?”

A heavy sigh, a trembling hand smoothing along his head, and then Lord Varys nodded begrudgingly. “The wildlings that follow the King in the North…they believe him to be a God.” There was a small, wry twist of the Spider’s lips. “Though I very much doubt our rather humble guest would concur with that opinion.”

Daenerys was numb, her voice wooden as she agreed. “No, I’m sure he would not.” She pulled her hand free of Missandei’s grip gently, bringing her hands together above the table, her nails biting in as she held them tightly against each other. “The next item?”

“House Frey is no more. Edmure Tully,” he slid this scroll to her for her perusal, “has retaken Riverrun with what remains of the Tully forces.” Varys gave her keen look, his own hand coming to rest just inside the drape of his robe. “This means that, with the surviving Stark children and their Tully blood supporting their brother, the King, that an alliance would become even more…attractive, shall we say, with our rather stubborn guest. The Vale has declared for the Starks as well. If the King can be persuaded this would constitute rather sizable support for your claim to the Throne. Many others would follow, of that I am sure.”

“Marriage would be best.” Theon’s words did not appear to catch her Master of Whispers by surprise, quite the opposite in fact; he gave an approving nod to Lord Greyjoy before glancing back to the Queen.

“I must agree. But I must assume that such would need to be addressed after this rather ill-fated mission your Hand has cobbled together, yes?” She wanted to explode, wanted to tell them all to leave, that she did not want to discuss this now, that she could not. 

Daenerys was a Queen, though, not a silly mercurial girl who could not contain her own outbursts, and so she only gave tight smile and nod to Varys. “I believe that would be wise.”

Varys gave a deferential dip of his chin, collecting his scraps of paper and their terrible words, and stroked his chin in thought. “Your Hand certainly hopes to make it so. Binding Houses Stark and Targaryen together in marriage would make the two of you almost impossible to defeat, together.”

“Tyrion planned for this?” He had made no mention of it to her, only knowing smiles here and subtle suggestions there to prompt her to strengthen her relationship with Jon as a potential ally, and it irked her as equally as it pleased her, that he considered Jon as suitable a prospect as she did.

Varys gave her a long, doleful look and rose, addressing her as he wandered to the window, the mid-morning sun already beginning to blaze brightly. “Why ever not? You are both young, unmarried, attractive.” His voice began to sound a bit detached, enough so that she twisted in her seat to look at him, his back to her as he faced the grounds below. “I should expect he thought you would find a man like Jon Snow a breath of fresh air after all you have endured.”

She looked uncomfortably to Missandei, then Theon, finding no judgment as she felt her cheeks heat, walking to join Varys and feel the breeze upon her face. It was a blessed escape from their kind scrutiny, but she had more to think on than marriage, and she wished to do so alone, urgently. “I must take my leave, my Lord. Thank you for such diligent work.”

“Of course, my Queen.” 

\--------------

Jon felt excitement bubbling within him, almost not recognizing himself as he strode through the stone halls of Dragonstone, the setting sun casting long shadows upon windowed corridors as he made his way to the Queen’s chambers, very much looking forward to dining with her once more.

He thought he must enjoy enduring such glorious torment, for there could be no finer suffering than sitting across from such beauty as hers. But she was beautiful to him in a way that was deeper than his attraction; that he was attracted to her there was no doubt, but that was not unmanageable for a man like him. That he could endure, if he must.

But she was beautiful in her kindness, in the warmth that seemed to radiate from her. There was something magical about her, not that he would dare speak such a thing aloud. And seeing her with her dragons stirred something powerful inside him, something deep and old and deeply rooted, that made him feel as if her blood sang to his, and his sang only for her.

Her dragons were a wonder, none could deny that, but she was the true wonder, a warrior who wore the mask of a lovely Queen, whose hands were rough but whose lips were soft and sweet, a lonely girl dwelling inside a commanding woman. She had enchanted him, he thought, her door in his line of sight now, and he chastised himself to behave properly.

Jon could not fault her for sending him away, but it was almost impossible to accept that it was due to her own desire for him. He could not find what she must see in him, when he looked into his own eyes in the mirror. There dwelt the poor little bastard boy that few had loved, the outcast who took no joy in dealing death but could do so in swift and expeditious fashion.

He knocked, pushing wayward thoughts aside to focus on at least controlling the awkwardness that seemed to creep in whenever he was with her, not knowing what to say, following her lead because the things he wished to say he knew he should not.

At the sight of her red-rimmed eyes and loose waves of hair he stepped back, mute at her distress.

“My apologies, Jon, but I fear I am in no state to dine with you this evening.” She was so sad, so distraught that his body raged at him to do what it wanted, to hold her and smooth his hands down that silky mane of hair, free of encumbrance and framing her face so sweetly that he worried he would make a right fool of himself. He nodded, instead, disappointed but not wishing to add to her unhappiness with his own selfish wants.

“Has something happened? Has there been word from Davos or Tyrion?”

Violet eyes studied him, roaming across his face, down his chest before she met his gaze again and shook her head. “Have no fear, I have received no such news.”

He felt a sick twist of dread, something sour and bitter as he voiced his true suspicions. “I hope I have not offended you in some way.” Of course he had, he had drawn her to him last night, kissed her fervently, man-handled her dragons this morning as well, and he knew he must be right when her features contorted at his words, as if her tears would start anew. “Apologies.”

Jon felt his eyes drift shut in defeat, hope guttering out like a dying flame inside him and he turned to leave. But then there were hot palms against his cheeks, gripping him hard as she forced his face down to hers. “Look at me, you silly man.”

The King forced his eyes open slowly, only to find her smiling sadly up at him. “You have not offended me, Jon. Do you understand?” He nodded slowly, not really comprehending what was happening, but wanting to do anything he could to alleviate the sadness in her gaze as she stared at him steadily. “Do you? I suspect you do not.”

With a sigh and a shake of her head she kissed him, suddenly, forcefully, those slender hands pushing his shoulders to shove him against the wall with a strength that surprised him. And then her tongue was slipping sinuously between his lips, a deliberate intrusion that stoked that dying ember in his chest back to life and caused his blood to heat with desire. She was moaning, almost desperately, her hands stroking along his jaw, cupping his face as she sealed her mouth to his, her tongue dancing suggestively against his, teasing him into doing the same. Before he knew what he was doing he was joining her in this dance of lips and teeth and tongue that made him wish he had nothing more in the world than a bed and a fire and this woman who was sliding her body so sweetly against his as she claimed him with a fierceness that reminded him of her great winged beasts.

His hands roamed tentatively, at first, emboldened at her ragged gasp when one slid to the base of her spine, the other climbing to the soft skin of her neck and tangling in her hair, anchoring her to him even as she pressed him further into the hard stone at his back, his thumbs circling and playing against the thin material of her tunic and wishing he could feel her without it.

All too soon she drew back, so slowly, as if it pained her to be parted from him. Her lower lip still lingered against his as she whispered, “You have not offended me, Jon. Quite the opposite.” Soft pink lips, sweeter than he thought any woman’s lips could ever hope to be, pressed against his a final time, something gentle and timid in this contact as she leaned back, her hands sliding down from his shoulders to rest flat against his chest. “I have much I must think on and plan for, and I do not wish to have such encumbrances weighing on me when I dine with you tomorrow.” 

He let out a ragged breath, desperately trying to bank the desire that surged through his veins with a strength he was not familiar with, relieved only in that she seemed to struggle as well. “If it please you, Your Grace.” Her eyes met his at his rough whisper, and it was blessed torture to see desire reflected back as she pushed herself back to return to her chambers.

“It would indeed. Until tomorrow then.” There was a pause, her head turning back slightly to look at him as she opened her wooden door, her finger idling over the iron work and her eyes coy as she smiled. “Your Grace.”

He was breathless for her, he realized, acting like an simpleton there in her hall, only able to nod as she disappeared, then sagging back against the wall for a moment to collect himself.

He had to leave her, each day spent in her presence was a day he enjoyed but a day that brought him closer to sailing away from these shores to a fate unknown.

It was his duty.

But by the Gods, he was so tempted, so close to pushing it all aside for her. Jon was afraid the attachment he felt had grown past the point of being contained, thick thorny vines of something unfamiliar that had crept in without him noticing but now invading everything, wild and overgrown but so alive that it thrilled him even as he hated himself for it.

It was his duty and for the first time he was truly loathe to do it.

  



	8. Your Bones

  
Chapter 8: Your Bones  
Summary:

Jon ponders this situation with Daenerys

Chapter Title is yet another track from the album "My Head is an Animal" by Of Monsters and Men.

  
  
Notes:

THE JON SMUT THAT WAS PROMISED  
I love you all, an appropriate amount, not too much, not like a sick weirdo or anything.  
Or do I?

  
  


That sleep alluded him was not surprising. Jon had always had a hard time falling asleep, and it was only after times that he’d thoroughly exhausted himself during his waking hours that rest came easily, swiftly taking him to an inky black nothingness in which he could escape from the horrors of his life.

After he had died it had become doubly hard, and at his lowest times he could remember hoping, when sleep had finally pulled him into it’s dark embrace, that he might not wake up when the sun rose once more. Life, after his death, had become one arduous struggle after another, a neverending cycle of pain and misery and blood that haunted him now even behind closed eyes.

But Jon had been able, since the Queen had given him permission to begin mining in the caves below her great Keep, to work himself to exhaustion most days, toiling beside the Dothraki and Unsullied and Northmen alike, pulling load after load of salvation from the depths in his last desperate attempt to save people who had no inclination to believe that the threat he warned of was real.

Tonight was different.

Tonight Jon did not sleep because his thoughts were a whirling maelstrom of opposing forces. It was duty that had always compelled him, always driven him. It was duty that had kept him isolated and alone. It was duty that had cost him his life.

Now, as best he could see, the war within himself boiled down to duty and desire. It was not the first time; he’d loved Ygritte though he’d known that what they shared would never last. He’d known he could not stay. He’d known, deep down, that he’d wouldn’t have lain with her to begin with if not for the need to convince Mance that he’d truly deserted the Night’s Watch, that he was a Brother no more. When the time had come to choose he had chosen his duty because he could see no other option.

What he faced now? It was so very far removed from any situation he’d ever found himself in that it was almost beyond comprehension. Daenerys was no wildling girl, and he was no green boy. She was a Queen, a woman of almost unimaginable beauty, commanding the largest and most lethal standing armies in all of Westeros. She could, Jon supposed, win her war for the Iron Throne without rousing even one of her dragons to the fight, and she had three.

If she wished, he thought, she could probably have any man she wanted, without any need to stir herself or expend her energies on him. 

But she did anyway, and he was sorely confused. Not that she might wish to strengthen any alliance they might still be able to forge between them, he understood that aim quite well. However, she could do so without spending her evenings with him in her chambers, or kissing him as she had. She had no need to allow him so closely to her dragons, her children, the very things he thought she might hold the most dear.

He had spent most nights, since that very first night spent sharing a meal with her, wondering just what it was she meant in doing such things. Had he not grown to know her, at least in some small way, he might suspect she meant to seduce him into bending the knee, that it was a manipulation meant to earn through affection what he had denied her with diplomacy.

Jon could not, however, reconcile that with the Daenerys he had seen firsthand. That woman, that lived behind the mask she wore most other times, spoke to her enormous dragons as though they were meek little lambs. She genuinely cared for those who’d sworn their allegiance to her. She did not order those around her to fight for her, if anything she wanted to lead the charge, and absent that she would fight beside them. There was honor within her, something he greatly respected.

He knew, in flashes and glimpses that were scattered but surely there, that she felt the burden of such crushing responsibility just as he did, that she understood in a way that perhaps no one else did that to have such power took much more than it ever gave to the bearer. He wondered, sitting idly at the rather stately wooden desk in his newly provided quarters, if she ever felt as helpless to the demands of such station as he did.

He thought she might.

There was hope in that, though it troubled him to think it. It was a reckless sort of hope, like a man overboard, being tossed about by relentless seas only to see, in the distance, rescue approaching. Such a man need only hold on, really, until such salvation was upon him.

Holding on was extremely hard to do sometimes.

An idea had plagued him since it had first entered his mind, a foolish notion he had considered then dismissed summarily, when he’d first come to these shores.

Fealty, he knew, was not the only way alliances could be built. It was one way, certainly.

Marriage was another.

He rose from his chair, collecting the scattered scrolls he’d been listlessly reading through, storing his few personal items away so that he might ready himself for whatever sleep might come to him. He found himself relieved he’d only managed to toe off his boots and outer layers before a light knock sounded at the door, the hour so late he thought it must be one of his men as he called out.

“Enter.” He heard the latch click as the door opened, scrubbing a hand across his face before he looked up, finding not a dour face Northman as he’d originally expected, but the very Queen he had been thinking on all evening.

That alone was enough to birth a startled panic in his gut, because after days of her companionship, after knowing what it meant to feel her lips upon his, he was not sure he had any reserves of willpower left. And he very much worried that, whatever political fallout might ensure, he did not have the strength to deny her if she wished to lie with him.

Daenerys entered slowly, her eyes darting around the room before coming to rest on him, the chair beneath him creaking as he shifted before her, willing his body to calm itself, willing his mind not to note the thin shift she wore, a plain simple linen shift meant to be worn beneath gowns or for slumber. He begged his eyes not to study the way the thin material clung to her form, not to watch the way she moved as she crossed the floor towards him, coming to stand before him.

“I hope I am not disturbing you.” She spoke so quietly, but her voice was warm, and she offered him an apologetic smiled as he stared up at her, praying he wasn’t gaping like a simpleton. Her hair was loose, as it had been earlier, flowing like a silver river down her back, slipping over her shoulder, and it was all he could do not to reach a hand up and slide his fingers through it.

Jon gave a small smile of his own, his hands coming to grasp his knees in an effort to keep them respectfully to himself. “Of course not.” He waited a beat but she spoke no further, merely smiled down at him, making his stomach tighten in a strange mix of excitement at her nearness and nervousness that she might be in his rooms, at this late hour, for exactly the reason he wished she was there. “Was there something you needed? The hour is late.”

She gave a tiny smirk, something in her eyes alarmingly knowing as she let her gaze wander about his chambers, lingering on the door that was cracked open, the one that led to his sleeping chambers. No, he thought, best not to even think on that. He cleared his throat, standing abruptly and grasping his boots with a shaking hand, needing to collect himself and determine the best course of action, probably something that involved bidding her a most courteous goodnight and ushering her out of his rooms before his hands untied the knot that held that shift to her body. It was a deeply shameful truth, for a man who’d considered himself good and honorable, that he wanted nothing more than to see that linen fall from her form, to see her bare in the firelight. 

“I meant to apologize for my behavior earlier. I fear I have much on my mind, as I am sure you do as well.” Jon dropped his boots against the wall as she spoke, turning back towards the center of the room to find her trailing her fingers along the pommel of his sword where he’d left it leaning by the mantle, knowing it was something strange and twisted within his own mind that found such an act so arousing, wishing it was he and not Longclaw that received such attention from those deceptively delicate hands.

“I understand.” He was surprised by the sound of his own voice, how low and husky it had grown. She stared at him wordlessly, her throat working as though she struggled to speak, and he would not allow himself to wonder if she truly wanted him as desperately as he did her, he could not allow himself to think that she had come here for that very purpose.

Daenerys moved then, the thin skirt of her shift swinging about her small, bare feet, fine bonded and pale in the firelight that lit the room, moving with an air of authority to the partially open door of his bed chambers, letting herself into the smaller room as though it were hers. He felt his breathing accelerate, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he followed, entering the room a moment after her to find her already at the arched stone windows carved from the solid wall, moonlight washing over her enchantingly. He averted his eyes when he realized that the pale light shone through the fabric of her shift, revealing the glorious shape of her through the thin material.

He closed his eyes against the sight, knowing he could not forget such even if he wanted to, only to snap his lids open at the touch of a hand on his cheek.

“Do you ever wish you could pretend, Jon?” He felt his mouth open and close soundlessly as she came nearer still, her lips tantalizingly close to his, her breath hot on his skin. “Tonight I wish we could pretend together, that we could be nothing but what we are right now, that we have no duty to answer to, no people to serve…that we were free to take the things we want, no matter how selfish it would be.”

He struggled to breath as she traced his lower lip with a slow, gentle finger, his hands flexing at his sides with restrained want as he fought the urge to give in to her whispered words, wanting nothing more than to pretend that he could have her with no consequences, that they were both just a man and a woman and nothing more, just once. But he could not find his voice, shame at his own weakness keeping him silent, instead nodding his head slightly in an admission he could not speak aloud.

“I want to stay, Jon.” He felt his eyes widen, even as his hands gripped her slender waist, her skin hot beneath the flimsy garment she wore, his body catching fire as desire began to burn in his blood. “I know it is not wise.” A finger caught his chin, directing his eyes to hers. “I know I should not allow myself any more attachment to you when you cannot stay.” Her lips found his, ghosting against his before kissing along his jaw and up towards his ear, her teeth nipping his earlobe sharply in a manner that had him groaning and pulling her flush against him, knowing there was no way to hide his desire for her, and knowing that just now he had no will to deny her anything.

“If you do not return, Jon…” Her voice trailed off, her lips dancing along the length of his neck, now, her tongue laving a trail of fire along the line of a tendon. “I would rather regret that I had you and lost you than regret I was not brave enough to have you at all.” Suddenly her lips were upon his, ravenous, her teeth biting gently but firmly at his lower lip, her tongue thrusting ardently into his mouth, and he was helpless but to answer her hunger with his own, to let loose of his control and suckle at her upper lip as she moaned, their mouths fighting for dominance as he gathered her against him, their lips only parting at her gasp as he was finally pressed against her. 

Others take him, there could be no finer feeling than this, at least not that he could imagine, his hands grasping at gently rounded hips as she circled them against him, a sinuous twist that caressed his length through the thin material of his trousers, the only barrier between his aching cock and the sweet, hot heat of her core, and he felt himself swell further still at the realization.

Daenerys swallowed his growling moan with lips that were already wet and swollen from kissing him, her hands wrapped tightly at the nape of his neck as she writhed against him, suckling at his tongue each time he thrust it into her mouth and whimpering with need.

“Do you want me, Jon?” Her chest was heaving, her nipples hard and visible against that creamy fabric, and he was lowering his mouth to her cloth covered breasts before he could tell himself otherwise, laving wetly as she arched her back, her fingers pulling at his neck, pressing him closer, her head thrown back as she panted out a question.

And it was not in him to lie, to deny this one fundamental truth: he wanted her as he had never wanted another, and he would take what she offered even if the Gods themselves damned him for it. He was only a man, and he had found the limits of his restraint, now, the very boundary of his control over his own desires. He raised his head, waiting until she opened her eyes, beautiful eyes that were heavy-lidded and dark with desire. “Yes.”

At his guttural response she lowered her legs slowly, sliding down his body, releasing her hands from his neck only to tug at the strings tied at her neck. With a flick of her wrist she’d loosed it, and stared challengingly at him as she stripped the fabric from her body, smiling in most satisfied fashion at the look of awe he could not contain as she was finally bare before him, his hands fighting with his own shirt and trousers as quickly as he could until they were both naked as their namedays. And he allowed himself some slight satisfaction as well as her eyes danced over him, her nostrils flaring at his muscled chest, her teeth catching at her lower lip as her gaze lowered further before her tongue escaped to wet her lips.

“Then take me.” He needed no more encouragement than her husky command, advancing as she backed up, their halting steps only stopped as her legs made contact with his bed, and then he was on her, pushing her back to lay atop his blankets, his hands bravely exploring such forbidden territory as though he had every right to be there.

All he knew in those next moments was the velvet of her skin under his palms, his hands smoothing up firm thighs and nudging them apart, her hands upon his neck once more to draw him down upon her, her hips circling, seeking the weight of him between her legs, her lips and teeth savagely marking his neck with wild abandon as his cock grazed her wet center, so hot and slick that he worried he might spill then and there. 

Jon gritted his teeth, fighting the impulse to bury himself inside her, to fuck her hard and deep and bury himself within her, to forget himself and pretend, just as she had said. He could pretend she was his, he thought, his tongue roughly licking at the skin of her neck just as she had done to him, biting and sucking roughly at the skin of her chest as he captured one pink nipple in his mouth, moaning at the feel and taste of her against his lips and tongue.

And if he had doubted that some hidden beast dwelled within her, the same as dwelled within him, he was proven wrong by the way she thrust herself against him in such wild abandon, her skin growing slick with sweat as she writhed against him, her hands clutching and scratching, nails scraping sharply against him as she twisted her hips and moaned his name. It was she who slide a small, deceptively fragile hand between their bodies, her grip gentle but sure as she grasped his cock, the pressure almost enough to make him weep until she guided him against her, and she was so very wet with her want for him that it took but one sure, hard snap of his hips to thrust home, freezing as he felt himself press against the back of her womb, dropping his head to her sternum as he gasped, adjusting to the sensation and gripping the last vestiges of control before looking up to meet her eyes.

Gods be good, no woman had ever looked upon him with such possession, with such frantic and consuming lust, with something else buried deep that he could not name just now. He must pretend, and so must she; He had to hope she could pretend not to see what lurked within his heart in his own heavy, desperate stare. That he must fight to conceal, and so it was lust that he gave into, the tight, sweet grip of her walls against him, slick as a baby seal indeed, and he set up a punishing rhythm, one that she met with equal hunger, their hips rocking together with greater and greater force as she began to keen and cry out and toss her head against the bedding beneath her. 

He tipped his head down, the hypnotic sway of her breasts and the rosy peaks of her nipples too much for him to resist, his lips wrapping around one hard tip and suckling hard as he fucked her, moaning against her skin as she arched more sharply, feeling her tighten beneath him and around him, and though Jon might not have been as well-learned as others she might have known he knew enough about what she needed, sliding the hand not braced and holding his weight atop her down to where he plunged into her mindlessly now, his only thought that he wished he could feel nothing but this, nothing but the unending pleasure of having her, the truth of it exceeding any expectation he might have had, and his thumb stroked against the sensitive bud above her entrance as she bucked against him frantically.

“Jon!” She wailed his name, and then she was spasming around his cock in a pulsating rhythm that drove him mad, that made his own back arch as he thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure now that she had found hers, clutched tightly to her as she wrapped herself around him now, urging him on with sharp nips of teeth and the bite of her nails into the skin of his back, her ragged whisper for him to let go, to give himself to her such sweet invitation that he could no longer resist. 

He gave his own ragged cry, dropping his head once more to her breastbone as he jerked against her, spilling into her with a long, gasping moan before he collapsed beside her, feeling as though he might pass out if he did not bring his breathing under control.

Jon rolled onto his stomach for a moment, his head turned to watch her as she stared at the ceiling of his chambers, a slight smile on her face as she calmed. Daenerys turned to look at him, her hand shaking as she reached out to stroke his jawline.

“Please, Jon. Please come back.” She looked so sad, suddenly, and he found it so unbearable that he was on his side in an instant, gathering her against him, stroking a hand down the sweat-slicked skin of her back.

\--------------

He sat up gasping, his sheets soaked with sweat, whatever answer had been on his lips as he dreamt lost to him now.

Jon sat up slowly, groaning, his mind attempting to catch up to his body and sort out what he’d dreamt from what was real. He looked around, knowing from the state of his room that Daenerys had not come to his chambers at all, relief and bitter disappointment at odds in his chest as he sat up slowly.

It was then that he realized that while he had only lay with the Queen in his dreams his body had not known the difference, the evidence of which now lay sticky and cold in the bedding against his groin, embarrassment heating his cheeks though none knew but him.

That was enough, he thought, shaking his head. He hadn’t done such as this since he’d first learnt that cocks weren’t just for pissing, just past his twelfth nameday, and just as he’d done then he hurried to strip the sheets and clean himself up. There was no Lady Stark here to learn of the state of his bedding, but it would be horrifying enough if the Queen were to learn of it.

He did not know what to do about Daenerys. He did not know if he should push her away and keep his distance, keep her at arm’s length to save himself the agony of leaving her, because if he allowed himself any closer he would be lost.

The trouble was that he wanted nothing more, and he had to decide, soon, for both of them.


	9. Wolves Without Teeth

  
Chapter 9: Wolves Without Teeth  
Summary:

Daenerys tries to avoid her growing attachment. Jon asks a favor.  
Fermented mare's milk involved.

As always, the song is by Of Monsters and Men, from the album "Beneath the Skin"

  
  
Notes:

I'm clearing the decks, starting with what was closest to being ready to post :) So enjoy, next chapter of this will be aboard Dany's ship, post-rescue.

  
  


When Daenerys rose the next morning, she was angry.

It was a heavy, burning anger that thrilled her as much as it worried her, something deep and ferocious within her that roared with each step she took through the keep.

It clawed it’s way out of her chest as she ascended the cliffs that her sons often chose to recline on, and she felt that fiery pull as she made her way into the clear morning sky on the back on her largest son, along that invisible tether that bound her to Drogon, that called him to her with a bright and powerful fury.

She did not name it, even to herself, until she was leagues above the ground, the seas spread wide before her, pressed against the warmth of Drogon’s scaly hide.

Jon Snow was the source of her anger, and the warring factions inside her were slowly tearing her apart. He made her feel things she did not wish to feel, and she hated it. She wanted to hate him for it, to blame him for whatever bewitchment he had placed upon her, some old Winter magic that he had surely inflicted upon her that was as powerful as the fire that raged in her Valyrian blood.

If there had been any indication, any at all, that his stubborn bravery and honorable humbleness was nothing more than an act she would find herself relieved. Then Jon Snow would be exactly what every other man had been: perhaps more trustworthy than most, to be sure, but a trust that had clear limits.

Viserys had sold her, Jorah had betrayed her, Drogo had hurt her in ways she had been forced to bury deep down inside herself in order to survive life amongst the Dothraki. Daario had been far more interested in bedding a Queen and bragging about such conquest than he’d ever been in the person that she was, his pleas of love resoundingly shallow when she’d left for Westeros.

Jon Snow was a King, arguably the most politically powerful man she had made acquaintance with, and perhaps an even more powerful ally. He did not brag or boast, though the stories that circulated amongst her advisors certainly suggested he could if he were so inclined. He had not come to Dragonstone to woo her or steal power for himself. He came because he fought for his people, and she was his best hope in saving them.

Daenerys shuddered and pressed herself closer to Drogon’s back, her cheek sealed tightly against his rough hide as the wind whistled past her ears, her long thick braid whipping against her back as the pair flew.

Jon Snow refused to bend the knee, and instead of solidifying a cool and calculating distance between them she found it harder and harder to control herself around him.

All she could think of, when her eyes fell upon that somber face, was how she wished to kiss him, to feel his lips against hers, of all the ways she could go about making him smile. And she had seen him smile, truly, in the time since Tyrion and Davos had departed on their mission. It was something to behold, even for one such as Daenerys Targaryen, a wonder that was rare and fleeting.

She hated how disgustingly weak she felt when she was near him.

She knew better than this; she was no young girl, not anymore.

She knew, also, that he was similarly afflicted; that the brief, curt nod she had given him when their paths had crossed before her departure had communicated the nebulous ache that lay between them now, something they were both aware of, but which could not be discussed, nor acted upon.

Not yet.

There had been a hunger she recognized, repressed and contained but there in Jon Snow’s grey eyes. Acceptance lingered in those flinty depths as well, and perhaps some relief at the realization that she was not joining him. He knew exactly how volatile this was. He was not a fool.

He was reckless and stubborn and handsome to a fault, but he was not a stupid man.

She yearned for him, and yet every moment spent in his company was a moment closer to losing him.

Daenerys knew she could not be with him today, not as she wished to be. The heart of her wanted nothing more than to soak in his presence, his every breath; She wanted him in her bed, even if only for a night, to know that truth as well, to see if the flames that he fanned higher within her would blissfully consume them both, as she suspected.

Instead she would escape on Drogon and soar above the clouds, and take whatever solace there was to be had in that. The skies were hers, only hers.

And in them she would always and every be alone.

She wondered, closing her eyes with a small sigh, her dragon’s scales hot under her cheek, if Jon Snow dreamt of her as she did of him; Would either of them be brave enough to take what they truly wanted, before he left to die on this ill-conceived mission?

\------------

Daenerys had been successful in avoiding Jon Snow, sunset painting the sandy beaches of Dragonstone in shades of rose gold as she walked the shores, studiously averting her eyes from the darkened entrance of the dragonglass caves that had ensnared the King in the North once more.

She had made several circuits along the beach, but only because she enjoyed the view, and in this one narrow strip she could dip her hand in the foaming surf without facing the dangerous, craggy rocks that occupied most of the shoreline.

The Queen was *not*, of course, watching for a particular man to emerge. That was nonsense. She had spent the entire day convincing herself that she must press for distance, now. She had come too far and risked too much already to lose her heart to a young somber King.

All the same, she had to see him, and it had to be tonight, for as she had flown through the skies she had spotted a ship in the distance, a ship that flew her sails, blood red on black.

Their Hands were returning, and then he would leave her.

In the end, everyone left her, and she hated the hope that Jon Snow had sparked to life within her, just as she cradled it closer as though it were as fragile as spun glass, something she must protect.

Daenerys sat down hard, wincing slightly at the impact before shifting against the sand, the low tide leaving the higher parts of the shoreline dry enough for her to stretch her legs out before her. She traced patterns absently in the sand, barely glancing down, keeping her eyes trained instead on the sun as the last sliver of light hovered above the horizon. She had hoped Jon Snow might see her there, as the minutes piled up, stars beginning to appear above her.

And then, as though he had been called by her wayward, unwanted wish he was there, in the periphery of her vision, rasping out a somber, “Your Grace.”

The Queen closed her eyes, pressing the lids together tightly, gritting her teeth as she willed herself not to say something foolish. She did not look upon him as she responded, more despair than she’d wished to disclose in her quiet voice. “Good evening, King in the North.”

Jon Snow did not answer, instead seating himself beside her, closer than she’d dared to hope for, though not as close as she desired. Daenerys risked a peek to her right, where he had mimicked her pose, her eyes travelling from his booted feet up his trouser covered legs, to the furs now pooled around him, his eyes not on her but on the horizon as he leaned back slightly, bracing himself with his arms as his gaze searched the sky. No, he did not look upon her in this moment, but he must have dared a glance without her noticing, for when he did finally answer it was clear to her he’d seen the warring emotions dancing across her face.

“You seem troubled.”

Daenerys swallowed hard, drawing her knees up and folding her forearms against them, resting her chin upon her sleeved skin. “These are troubling times.” He remained silent, as though waiting for her to explain. “A ship bearing my sails returns. They should reach shore by the morning.”

She turned her face to watch him once more, resting her cheek upon the rough fabric of her overcoat, hating the way his face fell at her words, her heart twisting at the ragged exhalation of breath that escaped him as he looked down, suddenly intensely fascinated by his own booted feet. “I see.” His throat worked silently, and he opened and closed his mouth several times until he seemed to settle upon what he wished to say. “That is troubling.”

Daenerys fumbled inwardly for her own reply, finally tearing her eyes from his lower lip as he worried it with his teeth, fighting the urge to climb her way up his body and claim his lips for her own, to distract them both from what the morrow would bring. “You are worried.”

His eyes shot to hers, dark in the dying light, the night spreading shadows all around them as he studied her for long moments before nodding. “Aye.”

Breath seized in her chest, wanting to take her leave now before she enmeshed herself any further within him, before she became so tangled up in him that she would not be able to leave him be, but she realized it was far too late for such as she whispered, “Why?”

His eyes narrowed as he watched her, his jaw clenched and releasing, the muscles in his cheek and neck jumping until he gave a small, sad smile that did not reach his eyes, sitting up straighter as he reached inside his furs and pulled out a flask, taking a long swallow before he answered. “I’m worried about this plan.”

“You are?” The words had barely escaped before she was reaching her hand out, gently taking the flask from his fingers, taking a larger drink than was proper of something so potent it burned like dragonfire down her throat, prompting a laughing cough from her as she handed it back to Jon Snow. She grimaced, exaggerating her reaction slightly as she saw a real grin light up his face now, wrinkling her nose as he chuckled. “What *is* that?”

Jon took another healthy pull before answering, giving a grimace of his own that made her giggle in a most foolish manner, blood warming in her veins from the drink. “The wildlings make it. It will either get you exceedingly drunk, or,” he raised the flask in the air and shook it, “if need be, you can burn it in a lamp for several hours.” He gave a hearty laugh as her eyes widened. “They are a resourceful people, Your Grace.”

She arched a brow at him, snatching his drink away once more and helping herself, welcoming the spreading heat now that she knew what to expect. “Daenerys.”

Jon Snow gave an undignified snort. “Careful with that, *Daenerys*. It’s ten times stronger than that wine you prefer.”

The Queen pursed her lips at him, enjoying for a brief second the ways his eyes lingered on her mouth, wishing she were brave enough or foolish enough to take what she wanted from him, right here in the sand. “I’ve had far worse than this, I can assure you.”

That hint of playfulness that had so enchanted her before resurfaced as he gave a half smile, his own brows raising slightly as he drawled, “Is that so?”

A thought burst to life in her mind, fueled by the alcohol and his company and her realization that this night might be the last she spent with him. It grew, blossoming with possibility, danger pricking her skin like hidden thorns. In that moment, though, her lips spreading in a grin, his eyes widening at the sight as though he was as bewitched by her as she was by him, she did not care. For one night, she would be reckless.

She stood, slowly, pointing a finger down at him as he gazed upwards. “Very much so. Stay here.”

Daenerys had only made it a few paces up the sand before she looked back, Jon Snow calling out to her, “Where are you going?”

She laughed. “To get the worst the thing you’ll ever taste, *Jon*.” She paused, turning around to face him fully in the dusky, ever darkening night, just barely able to make out his features as he groaned. “If you’re up to the challenge, that is.”

His face was darkened in shadow, but she heard him laugh as he accepted her taunt. “Do your worst.”

\------------

“What is it?” Jon sniffed suspiciously at the contents of the cup she’d handed to him, his nose wrinkling at the rather potent smell, his eyes questioning as he looked between the Queen and the mysterious drink he’d been presented with.

Daenerys smiled as innocently as she could manage, turning to face the small fire he’d built there on the beach in her absence, allowing herself a gleeful, secret grin before her eyes returned to his. “I won’t tell you until you’ve tried it.”

Jon had shed his outer furs, down to just a lightweight tunic and trousers, and she did not stop herself from studying the lines of his body as he shifted restlessly beside her, swirling the liquid and smelling it once more before those dark eyes shot to hers. “I don’t think I ought to try it ‘til you tell me what it is.”

The Queen crossed her arms across her chest, her own overcoat shed and her legs crossed beneath her, glaring playfully at the raven-haired man, flipping her thick silver braid back over her shoulder with a toss of her head. “I drank your wildling lamp fuel, I’ll remind you, with no warning at all.”

She took a considerable swallow from her own cup, tipping her head back and making sure the mare’s milk spent no longer in her mouth than it must, the taste still one that made her shudder at first sip, even all these years later. Daenerys did not let it show, however, snaking her tongue out to remove all trace of the drink from her lips.

A shiver of excitement coursed through her when she the way he studied her mouth, as though he was helpless to look upon anything else, and for a brief heartbeat she imagined taking that cup from his hands and flinging herself upon him, of ridding herself of the lingering hint of her drink with the consuming taste of him.

No sooner had the thought materialized in her mind, however, he was placing the cup to his lips, challenge accepted, his eyes training on hers unflinchingly as he took a large gulp.

A split second later his face was a mask of such disgust that laughter overcame her, and she was clutching her stomach, tears building in her eyes as he shook his head, looking as though he might gag at any moment. Jon Snow shook his head, trying to affect a look of betrayal as he grumped, “I’m glad you thought that was so amusing, *Daenerys*.” His tone set her off once more, and she gave in to the helpless shaking of her shoulders as she leaned closer, bracing a hand against his arm as she tried to sort herself out.

Jon Snow had very strong arms, muscles hot and firm through the thin fabric of his shirt, and she sensed the shift in the air between them as she looked up, her chuckles dying away as she realized how close she truly was to him now. Daenerys straightened, leaning back to put some space between them. “It’s fermented mare’s milk.” He seemed confused, and so she pointed at the earthen jug she’d poured their drinks from. “A Dothraki specialty.”

“It’s bloody awful.” Jon seemed alarmed at his hastily spoken words, almost apologetically following with a much more formal, “No disrespect intended, of course.”

She inched closer, bumping her shoulder against his amicably. “None taken. I told you it would be the worst thing you ever tasted.”

His eyes left the fire, looking down at her with a chuckle. “You were right.” His voice was low and warm, familiar now, and the answering heat flaring to life inside her reminded her of the very reason she’d spent the day avoiding him. The more time she spent near him, the harder he became to resist, it seemed, but resisting him had become exhausting.

Just for tonight she wanted to enjoy his company, and to hell with what happened in the morning.

“Here.” She reached for the basket Missandei had packed, pulling out the cold meats and cheeses and a crusty loaf of bread, putting enough distance between their bodies to place the food where they could easily share. “Perhaps that will get the taste out of your mouth.”

He looked so relieved that it made her giggle, and quickly he was ripping off a large chunk of bread and shoving it into his mouth, a muffled “Thank you” escaping as he chewed.

They contented themselves with eating for several silent minutes, her fingers grazing against his as they reached between themselves for more, eyes locking then flitting away, and she knew he was not immune to this pull between them. He could feel it just as she could, but he admirably, if not unfortunately, seemed much more able to fight it than she did.

No, she became weaker to him with each breath she took, staring at his profile as he watched the flames dance before them, with those sad eyes and soft lips. She wondered idly, watching his throat work as he swallowed, what he would do if she asked him to share her bed, wondering he felt the press of time as she did, if he feared this night might be the last he would spend with her.

Jon would not look at her, she realized suddenly, had not glanced her direction in several minutes, and with each bite he took, with each blink of his eyes as he stared steadily forward, it slowly drove her mad. Mad enough to rid herself of caution and reach a shaking hand to his cheek, to cup her jaw and turn his face to hers. “Why won’t you look at me, Jon?” She did not understand what had changed, and so quickly, how the light in his eyes had died once more, dimmed and somber now as he grudgingly stared at her, his jaw set in a firm line. “Tell me.”

“The truth?” He breathed heavily through his nostrils, something like shame now creeping across his features, but that did not stop her brisk nod. She felt him swallow under her hand. “I have always been strong enough to set aside all that I might wish for myself so that I may do my duty. I have always done my duty, no matter what I wanted, no matter how selfishly I hoped things could be different.” He shook his head angrily, his chest rising and falling more rapidly with each word, her hand falling free. “I learned a long time ago not to want anything for myself.” Now Jon stood, looking wildly about, appearing as though he would bolt, away from her.

Daenerys stood, grabbing blindly at his arm as he turned, her grip firm enough to bring his head swinging back around, eyes darting as though he were a captured animal. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Those dark eyes glittered in the firelight, something hard and predatory emerging from their depths that might have frightened another woman or overwhelmed her, something animal and primal leaping forward.

But Daenerys was a dragon. Instead of fear she felt her stomach clench tight, her thighs pressing together as desire began to pool hot and steady, as her heart began to pound, as the animal within her awoke in response. Somehow he saw it, she realized, his chest heaving now, his eyes widening in surprise, then his lids lowering with want, and she thrilled at it.

Jon Snow was her equal. A beast dwelt in him just as it did in her, and she wished she could see what beauty lived under his skin.

Rough hands gripped her upper arms, drawing her roughly against him, and she barely managed to draw a breath before he was kissing her, his mouth capturing hers and holding nothing back, every hint of desire and want and lust that she’d hoped she’d seen in him blessedly set free, echoing through her with each hot stroke of his tongue, each tug of his teeth against her lips, the press of his body against hers.

Daenerys did not believe in any Gods but in that moment she prayed he did not stop, devouring him as he did her, suckling at his tongue with each thrust of it into her mouth, swallowing his groans as she thrust her hips against his sinuously. Her hands had twisted into the hair at his neck, tugging him roughly down to her as she moaned helplessly against his lips, needing him closer, wanting him inside her.

But then he tore his mouth from hers, panting roughly, his eyes cast downward as he gruffly whispered, “I have to go.”

“Why?” Her breath was ragged and uneven, her eyes trained on his mouth, his lips reddened and wet from her kisses, her only thought that she could not let him leave without having him.

“If I don’t walk away from you now, I won’t be able to at all.” Gray eyes finally met hers, begging, entreating her to understand. “I have to go.” He repeated the words once more, releasing her arms, backing slowly away, sorrow and apology warring with each other in his voice.

She watched him until she could no longer discern his form from the darkened stone walls of the Keep, cursing him for walking away, relieved that he had where she could not.

Then she spied his furs, discarded and left in her care once more, spread haphazardly across the sand.

\------------

The Queen’s hand shook as she rapped her knuckles on the darkened wood of his door, thinking to herself that it might be better if he did not answer at all. She understood what he had meant, earlier, kissing her and setting her aflame only to leave her raw with want. She understood it would be smarter, wiser to give him his furs in the morning, when dawn had brought sense back into her thick head, but her eyes hungered to see him all the same.

She was a stupid, foolish girl who hadn’t learned anything at all, it seemed, who wanted to have her heart broken time and time again.

She knocked, hoping he would lose his honor and draw her close, knowing he never would.

Jon’s face, when he cracked the door open, when he saw her standing before him, was expressionless. He stared at her for a long moment before opening the door wide, inviting her in without a word, turning and pacing over to where he had been packing his things, by the looks of it, his few meager possessions stacked beside an open wooden trunk against the wall.

“Here.” He seemed to hear her whisper despite the distance, his features softening slightly at the sight of the furs folded over her arm. “I hear it’s rather cold where you’re going, I thought you might not want to forget these.”

Jon’s head dipped almost shyly, his hands tentative as he lifted the heavy furs from her grasp. “Many thanks.” She could see him chewing on his lip, his shoulders finally slumping in resignation as he met her eyes warily. “I’m sorry.” He continued as she narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head slightly, confused as to what he was apologizing for. “I shouldn’t have…grabbed you so. Done what I did. I’m afraid I lost my head for a moment.”

She pressed her lips together tightly in irritation, worrying her fingers and twisting her hands as she ground out, “If you apologize one more time for touching me I swear to you I will throw you in the dungeon.”

Jon’s head shot up, his eyes surprised, studying her carefully before snorting. “Is this where I’m supposed to pretend that would be worse than going on this stupid mission?” He knelt, picking up a stack of clothing and placing it in the trunk, not even waiting for her response before he turned his attention back to his task.

Daenerys swallowed hard, padding silently over to where he worked, having traded her boots for silk slippers, and her earlier clothing for a simple shift and a heavy, plain robe, not stopping until the trailing fabric that brushed along the floor as she walked slid along his back. He paused, the muscles in his back tensing visibly through his thin shirt, his eyes startled now as he looked up at her.

“A Queen does not beg, Jon.” She licked her lips, hating how dry they had become, how her gut twisted with sick worry as she whispered her request to him. “But I will implore you, just the once. Don’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”

She held her breath, her chest tight as he rose slowly, his chin tucked almost into his chest as he gazed upon her seriously. “I must.” She began to shake her head, stopping as he spoke on, hating how he used her own words against her now. “What sort of King am I if I’m not willing to fight for my people?”

A chill ran through her then, despite the crackling hearth at her back, despite the closeness of his body. “One who remains alive.” Her voice was far more bitter than she intended, but his eyes only softened. He understood, even if he could not speak of his own selfish wants as plainly as she could.

“I am not above begging, however. And I must beg a favor of you, Daenerys, though I know I have no right to.” He took her hand between his, surprisingly gentle in his grip now, as though he thought he might break her if he held too tightly.

“Ask it and it will be done.” She would do what he asked, she decided, no matter what the request was. It was the least she could do, because the awful truth that gnawed away at her lay heavy between them now: he was not just going on this mission to convince Cersei that he spoke the truth.

“My sisters, my brother.” Jon looked away, the muscle in his jaw ticking under her watchful stare. “If I fall…” He trailed off as she shook her head, not willing to entertain her disagreement at this line of discussion. “Listen.” There was a desperation in his voice, and he dropped her hands to cup her face between his rough palms, to force her gaze to his. “Please don’t leave them to die. Take a ship, a dragon, whatever you must, but please.” Her eyes were growing hot, tears threatening to fall, her throat closed so tightly she could not swallow, could barely breathe. “Save them. Bring them here. Protect them, if I cannot.” His nostrils flared, his own eyes shining with wetness. “I would not see them suffer anymore.”

“I will.” Her words were rough, and few, ripping her apart at the prospect that this was real, now, that he was leaving and it was not only she who feared he would not return. “I will keep them safe.” She felt one hot tear slip down her cheek, felt him catch it with his thumb, one small sweep along her cheekbone the only caress he would allow himself now.

She pulled back, needing to be the one to leave him now, the hurt too much, too great to stay. She strode swiftly for the door, pausing only to issue one last statement to him, one that had him hanging his head in sadness even as he nodded in agreement.

“But they will curse me that I did not do the same for their King.”

\----------

She stood upon the shore long after Jon had departed, replaying his final words to her over and over again, everything within her aching to follow, to take her dragons and accompany them.

She stood, long after Tyrion had left her to her thoughts, his own eyes suspicious as he'd watched her bid farewell to the King in the North. He did not ask, not then, what had transpired, and she had no desire to submit to his questioning.

Not now.

He was gone, as if he'd never been there.

But she would know.

There was a new emptiness within her now, one that only would be filled when she saw him next, and she swore to herself, silently, an oath that she intended to keep.

Jon Snow would not die. She would not allow it.

He would return to her, even if she had to drag him back, even if it meant saving him from himself.


	10. Empire

  
Chapter 10: Empire  
Summary:

A chat after Jon swears his fealty after his boo flies in to rescue him. Absolute soft shit. Same band, you know the drill.

  
  
Notes:

I don't have any excuse other than the fact that I thought about this chapter all day and I had to get it out before I went to bed. Enjoy!

  
  


Jon stared at wooden boards that comprised the ceiling of the cabin, counting and recounting until he felt as though his eyes would cross, but desperate to keep them open.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw it again; Viserion falling from the sky with a scream, sinking below the ice. Fury would build inside him all over again, stretching his lungs to aching, the deep angry breaths he took to calm himself down doing nothing to aid his bruised ribs.

He welcomed the pain.

He deserved it.

If it weren’t for him she’d still have three dragons.

He should never have sent for her.

He should have died out there.

Again.

A part of him wished he had, though he would never speak such aloud. Watching her cry was a fresh form of torture, a low pounding building in his temples as he replayed their conversation over and over, agonizing over every stupid thing he’d said.

Bending the knee to her had been easy to do, in the end, though he could not yet do so formally. It was, by far, the smartest thing he’d managed in weeks.

He ought to be glad she’d pulled away from him, had retreated when he’d grasped her hand tighter. Jon grimaced, tossing his head against the pillows under him, his eyes focusing blankly out the windows to his right and into the night sky.

Jon was a bastard who was barely a King. He didn’t deserve someone like her, he never had, and he’d be better off getting his mind squared away with that now, instead of nursing some foolish, secret hope that she still wanted him as she had before he’d left.

It was better this way, he mused, the familiar twist of his features into a brooding scowl an odd sort of comfort as he shifted under the furs that covered him. His mouth remembered the shape of the frown he favored most, and when he heard the hinges squeak he did not bother turning his head, knowing only that it would not be her, and not caring if it was anyone else.

“You’re awake.”

The sound of her voice was such a shock that he jumped, just slightly, hid head whipping around to face her so quickly it made him dizzy, and he winced slightly as his stomach swam, pressing his eyelids shut tightly, barely registering the rustle of her skirts as she drew up beside him. He was almost oblivious to the worry in her voice when she spoke, close beside him.

“What ails you? Should I get some help?”

*Almost* oblivious.

But his heart began to pound all the same, stupidly, as he cracked his eyes open, her face close to his as she stood beside the bed, peering down at him anxiously. He answered slowly, watching as she twisted her fingers tightly together, as though she were nervous.

“No. I’m alright.” He tried to smile, failing to do little more but twitch upwards with the corners of his lips. “Just felt a bit sick.”

Daenerys was watching him closely and he found it a bit unnerving, wishing she would just leave him be so that he could let go of the foolish hope that flooded his heart when she was near. “Are you hungry?”

Jon shook his head, slower this time. “No, Your Grace.”

Now she was frowning. “Thirsty?”

“No, Your Grace.” He tried to keep his answers proper, tried to erect that barrier between them, but with every formality that passed his lips her frowned deepened further, lines forming between her brows as she stared at him. “You needn’t trouble yourself with me. I’ve caused enough trouble for you as it is.”

Now she looked positively angry, almost furious, and a part of him was gladdened by it, preferring this deserved furor over her tearstained face from earlier. He tried desperately to ignore the way her chest began to rise and fall, the movement drawing his attention to the fact that she had rid her outer layers from earlier in the day, now dressed only in a long-sleeved shift, the sort meant for sleeping. Jon looked away, finally, unable to stop himself from watching the rise and fall of her breasts through the creamy fabric, unable to forget the way it had felt the times she’d pressed herself tightly to him.

He had no right to such thoughts now, and so he closed his eyes, willing her to speak her peace and be done with it, to stamp out whatever it was that had grown between them before he’d left her there at Dragonstone, before he’d brought about the loss of her dragon, one of her children, she’d said.

“I am most cross with you, Jon Snow.” She spat the words and out and closed his eyes, nodding for her to continue as he settled in. The sensation of hot fingers upon his cheek, however, startled him, and he could not stop himself from gaping at her, her slender form now perched beside him on the bed. “Most cross.”

Her voiced hissed out between pink, parted lips, and he credited himself that his gaze lingered only briefly upon them before he forced himself to meet her stare with one of his own. Now was not the time to think about how soft Daenerys’s lips were, or how eagerly she had kissed him, how sweet her mouth was when he’d claimed it with his own.

“Don’t you ever,” she paused, as though she were trying to rid herself of the tremor in her voice, “ever force me to leave you behind again.” He could feel her hand shaking where it cupped his jaw, surprise washing over him at her words. This was not what he’d expected at all.

“That’s what you’re angry about?” His shocked whisper made her brows knit together further in confusion.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, her lips pursing in a manner so becoming he had to look away. She was impossibly beautiful, that was true, but it was occurring to him that she was even more bewitching when she was rankled with him. “What did you think I was angry about, Jon?” She ground out her words carefully, crossing her arms across her chest.

Jon shifted his eyes to her then the window, stuttering out, “Well, I just thought…Viserion.” He drew in a breath. “It’s my fault he’s…”

Her voice was hard as steel when she cut him off, then, leaning even closer, arms coming down to brace herself on the furs just to his side as she spoke. “That was my decision, not yours.” She was breathing hard, now, her face so close to his that he could feel her breath fanning across his face as he lay propped up, and he struggled to push himself up straighter, tired of laying prone. “And barely my decision at all.”

She backed up slightly, giving him room to sit, watching him fight to seat himself comfortably before she sighed. Without another word she was pressed against him, one slender strong arm wrapping around his back and holding him to her as she pulled him up, her other arm reaching out to adjust the pillows so that they would support him when he lay back.

He was proud that he only buried his nose in the hair hanging loose at her shoulder for a few seconds, pleased that he took only one deep inhale of her sweet scent before she was gently easing him back. “Better?”

Jon nodded mutely, distracting himself from her nearness by mulling over what she’d said just before he’d felt her body against his. “What do you mean, barely your decision at all?”

Now it was Daenerys who dropped her eyes, her chin dipped slow as she studied her hands, her fingers picking absently at the skirt of her shift. “Two weeks after you left, the dragons started behaving strangely.” She seemed almost shy, her voice quiet but clear enough for his ears as he listened hungrily. Violet eyes met his. “I know it sounds mad. I hardly believe it myself.” Now she spoke in a rush. “But it was as if they knew something was wrong.” His skin pricked with gooseflesh. It seemed awfully important, what she was saying, but it was almost impossible to wrap his mind around. He could not begin to understand why her dragons would have known anything was amiss.

“Especially Rhaegal and Viserion.” Her voice caught on the second dragon’s name but she maintained her composure, pushing onward as though she must get it all out, purge herself of this strange tale. “They were pacing the cliffs, they would not settle.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They seemed agitated, upset.” She rose slowly, her skirts sweeping around her legs as she wandered to the windows, peering out into the night sky. “The day Rhaegal snapped at me I had Missandei begin working on a heavier coat.”

She turned to meet his eyes, one side of her face painted in silver moonlight, the other glowing gold in the light of the brazier. There was something ethereal about her, something that made him want to throw himself at her feet, assuming he could muster the strength to rise from the bed. “By the time the raven came I knew what it would say.”

Slowly she stepped, one foot in front of the other, until she stood before him once more. “And when I climbed on Drogon’s back, his brothers followed because they chose to. They sensed the danger far sooner than I did, and they went anyway.” Daenerys fell silent, considering him, violet eyes alighting on his features. “You should understand something about dragons, Jon.” She exhaled slowly, glancing down as she perched lightly on the edge of the bed, her hand creeping along the furs to take his lightly. “They do as they wish. They will not be forced.”

Before he could reply she was squeezing his fingers tightly, speaking with a force that seemed at odds with the small woman before him. “It is the Night King who has taken him from me, not you, Jon.” She brought her face closer to his with each word she spoke until she was a hair’s breadth away from touching the tip of her nose to his, her eyes holding his powerfully. “And I am going to make him regret it. The day he made an enemy of me is the day he ensured that he will be nothing more than ash at my feet. I will make such war on him and his army that people will tremble when tales are told of it.”

Maybe it was the picture she created, something so violently beautiful that he felt himself shudder, remembering the awe that had consumed him when she had come for him, screaming across the sky, setting scores of dead men alight with her marvelous sons. Maybe it was the relief that swamped his every sense, crowding out every impulse that told him not to do what he felt driven to, in that moment. Maybe it was the way her lips parted, as though begging for the touch of his.

He did not care. He stopped thinking at all.

Jon’s hands reached up, her skin soft beneath his coarse fingers, her jaw delicately boned but strong in his grasp. He did not even need to pull her closer, for the minute she felt his skin on hers she was pushing forward, the wet heat of her mouth upon his the final reminder he needed that he was alive. He had not died in those icy waters.

She kissed him fiercely, breathlessly, her lips sliding against his, her tongue decisively dancing and darting against his own, unwilling to break the seal of their mouths until he had to pull away, his lungs burning with the need to breath, though the ache at the loss of contact was more painful than whatever injuries he had sustained.

He must have given away the discomfort his injuries were causing, because she did not lean back in to kiss him again. Instead she pushed back, just barely, her small hand hot upon his chest, upon the scar that lie just above his pounding heart.

When he felt her fingers trace the ridge of the scar he shut his eyes, slumping back against the pillows in resignation, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions sure to follow. He’d forgotten, impossibly enough, and the realization that she had seen the evidence that Ser Davos had spoken truly was enough to dampen the desire that raged within him.

“Do you know what this looks like?” Her voice was quiet again, pensive, and he risked a look at her face, sure he would find disgust there at the sight of his wounds, still raw and red.

“Probably like a knife to the heart.” She twisted her lips in a small, sad smile at his whispered words, her fingers tracing another scar, then another, until she had taught herself the shape of each. His breath escaped raggedly, his lips parted as he watched, unsure of what to say, unwilling to break the silent spell they were under, dreading the loss of her touch.

Daenerys nodded, silver curls trailing over her shoulder, kindness in her eyes where horror should be, sadness where he had expected disbelief. “I know what happened to you.” Her eyes met his for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, her fingers tracing the scar on his heart again, more tenderly than he could have imagined. “But I should hope those responsible for this have paid for their crimes against you.”

He nodded as she stared at him, stunned to see a cold anger simmering under the surface. “They have.”

“That’s good.” The ire in her eyes eased, softness remaining, and he just sat, stunned, desperately trying to memorize the sensation of her fingers on his skin in case he never felt such again. “I loathe traitors more than anything else.” Her fingers kept tracing along that red, raised skin, over and over, almost hypnotically as she leaned forward, her breath hot on his skin as she whispered. “If they still drew breath I would have no choice but to see such injustice answered for.” 

Jon could not stop the slight trembling that shook his body as she pressed her lips to the scar, stunned at the almost worshipful look on her face as she turned her face up to his.

He did not know what to say, what to think, and so he said only what he felt. “You are a fearsome woman.”

For a dreadful second he thought he’d offended her, surprised when she smiled brightly at him, sitting up straight, pride shining from her eyes as though he’d declared her the most beautiful woman in all the realms. “What a lovely compliment.”

Jon let out the breath he was holding in a swift exhalation. “Thank the Gods.” He leaned his head back against the pillow she’d stuffed behind his shoulders, closing his eyes in embarrassment. “I don’t have the best instincts when it comes to complimenting ladies.”

When she clucked her tongue at him he opened his eyes, raising his head enough to see her frowning at him in mock disapproval. “A Queen I may be, Jon Snow, but I can assure you of one thing.” She raised a brow slowly at him, archly, a small smirk upon her lips. “I am no proper Lady.”

Jon gave a sharp bark of laughter followed swiftly by a hiss of pain, the ache in his ribs growing. “I ought to lay back down, I think.” He thrilled secretly at her instant concern, holding himself to her with his hands around her back this time as she pulled him close, rearranging the pillows so that he could lie back, exhaustion overwhelming him, the rest he’d denied himself earlier clamoring for him to shut his eyes and sleep at last.

He dared not tell her so, afraid she would leave, knowing how pathetic it would sound if he asked her to stay with him, selfishly wanting nothing more than to awaken to the sight of her before his eyes saw anything else, wondering what sort of price the Gods might wish to extract for the sort of life that would grant him such a gift every day, knowing he would pay it if she was willing.

Daenerys did not retreat once he laid back, though, looking down at him ponderingly before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, Jon.” She sighed as he grimaced, shaking her head. “You look awful.”

Jon fought to keep his eyes open, at least a few moments longer, heartened to see that instead of taking her leave she walked over to the shelving along the far wall, selecting a book from those that lined the space and settling into chair nearby. “Rest, or I shall leave.”

There was warning in her words, and he could see her peeking over the spine of the tome at him to see if he obeyed.

He complied gratefully, sleep claiming him, no visions of dying dragons behind his eyes now, only the blissful blackness in which he dreamt only of her.

  



	11. Black Water

  
Chapter 11: Black Water  
Summary:

You know that feeling where you realize that, if Jon and Dany and Davos and Jorah and Gendry and all the rest sailed back from Eastwatch together, then that means Davos had some prime wingman time to pitch Jon "My Eyes are Soft but my D is Hard" Snow to the Mother of Dragons?

Boy, me too, and it is soft as fuck.

Here you go!

Song as always by Of Monsters and Men, from the album "Beneath the Skin"

  
  
Notes:

I need Davos and Dany interactions. I need it bad. And next chapter our slow burn comes to an end for real y'all.

  
  


“Your Grace.” The words were a low whisper in her ear, a hand lighting on her shoulder and gently shaking as she fought to pry her tired eyes open, looking around blearily as she blinked before scrambling to put herself to rights as the grizzled face of Ser Davos swam into focus.

A quick glance confirmed what her sore back and neck already told her, pale morning light streaming in through the windows, and she stood quickly, smoothing out the wrinkles in her shift. She’d slept the night by Jon Snow’s bedside, the hardbacked chair proving ill-suited for a restful slumber, and she winced as she stretched slightly.

The King in the North slept on, oblivious as his Hand asked quietly, “Were you here all night, Your Grace?”

Daenerys nodded slowly, her eyes straying to Jon’s face as his breath escaped in gentle puffs that made his lips stir gently with each exhalation, gazing lower to watch the rise and fall of his chest and the raw, red scars scattered across his skin.

She realized she’d been staring too long, glancing quickly at Davos to see a small smile playing around the older man’s mouth. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she hastily tried to cover her slight embarrassment with a forceful whisper in return, hoping Ser Davos was perhaps not as honestly blunt as the King he served. “I thought it best not to leave him alone during the night.” The Queen glanced back at Jon, his eyes still closed, lids twitching as though he dreamed on despite her impromptu conference with the Onion Knight. “In case he required assistance.”

It was a lie, of course, and by the faint twitch of the man’s lips she could tell he knew it as well as she did, but Jon’s Hand gave no further indication as he gave her a polite incline of his head. “Of course. I’m certain he will be most pleased to learn he has somehow earned himself such,” Davos glanced back at Jon with assessing eyes before looking back towards Daenerys, “kind consideration from the Mother of Dragons.”

“Oh!” It had not occurred to her that Davos might actually tell Jon that she’d spent the night by his bed, sleeping fitfully in that rickety chair. A warm rush of nerves flooded her and she whispered hurriedly, already backing towards the door as Jon’s Hand watched her progress. “There’s no need to tell him such.” She was not sure why the prospect filled her with such trepidation, but that it was a startingly intimate thing to do have done though she hadn’t intended to linger so long. It was the sort of thing one did for a lover, or a husband.

And Jon was neither of those things.

Not yet.

She tugged anxiously at her lower lip, giving one more glance to Davos as her hand reached back to pull the door open, a plea in her voice that made her flush anew as she whispered again. “There is no need, is there, Ser Davos?”

Jon Snow had a kind heart, Daenerys had seen as much by now, but his Hand had exceedingly kind eyes, and the Onion Knight replied back with soft reassurance, patting her shoulder gently, “’Course not, Your Grace. Out with you, then, before the lad wakes and realizes he spent the night naked under those furs with Daenerys Targaryen herself at his side.”

With a low chuckle at her widened eyes he shooed her out the door, leaving her to ponder that last comment, blindly making her way to the galley as she wondered what the honorable Jon Snow might’ve done had she peeled back those furs herself.

\------------

Daenerys had found ways to busy herself, breaking her fast with Ser Jorah and some of Jon’s men, somber Northerners who stared at her as though she were more dragon than woman.

She didn’t mind. Awe was, in her opinion, much more preferable to the leering stares she’d grown accustomed to over the years. If they leered, they did so when she was not watching, though perhaps it was due more to her sons’ screeching cries above deck and less any sort of inborn respect.

Jorah had been quiet as well, she mused, leaning heavily against the thick wooden railing now to watch as her dragons soared overhead, wondering if he had already puzzled out what she was slowly beginning to realize.

She hated it admit it, even to herself, but there was no other explanation for the softness that came over her heart when she thought of him, of the fear that had coursed through her as she’d seen him surrounded by dead men, of the misery that had overcome her when she’d flown off without him, thinking she’d lost him forever.

There was no other meaning for the relief that had swamped her senses as he’d come back atop that horse, unconscious but alive, an impossible return by all accounts. That fall into those icy waters should have killed him, but he was alive.

And she was in love with him.

She knew the hopes Jorah still harbored towards her, though she had done her best to dissuade him; she would never love him, not like that.

Not like she loved Jon.

She closed her eyes, fear grabbing hold at what that meant, what a weakness such feelings were creating in her.

What frightened her all the more was that there was a growing rebellion between heart and mind, for her heart now screamed that the time for choosing to allow such things was long past. Her only choice now was whether to act on such, or to bide her time, to see what might yet bear out as they sought a truce with Cersei.

She could not even be sure she was what he wanted, not like that. Daenerys had learned enough of him that she realized he might be willing to wed her to secure a more stable alliance, but he had made it plain enough that night on the beach: he would do his duty, first and foremost.

Daenerys did not want to be his duty, however.

She wanted him to want her, deeply, to crave her very presence as she was coming to crave his.

Even now, as she braced herself against the railing, salt spray cooling her heated cheeks, it was a struggle not to make her way back down to his cabin, just to see that he fared well, that he was being cared for.

She worried for him, for them, more than anything. She meant what she had said to him, what she had promised. She would fight the Night King with all that she had, but when she closed her eyes, when she saw the army of the dead again in her mind, fear knotted it’s way through her veins, a sluggish creeping horror that though she would not hesitate to fight by his side it was madness to think they might both survive.

Loving him meant that she could lose him, and it was a weight she was not sure she could bear, a loss that might drive her steadily down the path to her father’s madness. If she let this free, this love that swelled within her chest, that made her feel lighter just in the knowledge that he was here, he was safe, if only for now, she was not sure she could cage it again.

“Your Grace.”

Daenerys gave a noticeable start, turning to find she had been so lost in her thoughts she had not heard Ser Davos approach, the man giving her a small nod as he came to stand beside her, his hands grasping tightly to the wood before him as he looked up into the sky. His mouth fell open slightly as he watched Drogon and Rhaegal chase each other in tight circles.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” She asked Jon’s Hand what she had asked his King, wondering if his reply would be much the same.

“Indeed they are.” Davos looked down at her, smiling slightly. “A man could not hope to be blessed with such a wonderous sight as them.” The man cleared his throat gently, making sure he had her attention as he cut his eyes to her quickly. “Though my King might argue with such sentiment.”

Daenerys knit her brows together in confusion, a tiny frown turning down the corners of her mouth. “Really?”

Her mind began to race as Davos watched her, wondering if she had been terribly wrong about this man, her heart beginning to pound with regret until his next words stopped her in her tracks.

“Oh, yes. I reckon Jon would argue that it is their mother who is the true wonder to behold.” 

Daenerys shook her head gently, her eyes darting to Davos several times as she fought the smile that threatened to give her away. “I doubt that.”

Davos only snorted, silent for a few more moments as he watched her dragons before turning to face her, his arms crossed across his chest as he gave her a knowing look. “That was an awfully brave thing you did, coming to save those men.” There was a heaviness in his voice now, and she gave a slow exhale as she considered his praise, wrought with worry as it was.

“I had to.”

Davos nodded slowly, though his eyes held slight censure as he continued. “And foolish.” Her mouth fell open to argue with him, but the Onion Knight charged onward. “I had hoped you might be a better influence on the lad, you know. You could’ve died, both of you.” Whatever fire had burned inside the man’s eyes died off, slowly, as he fell silent, his admonition stinging though she knew he spoke the truth.

She had been foolish. But it had been the right thing to do, she was sure of it.

“I’m glad you came, Daenerys Targaryen.” Ser Davos spoke gruffly, his eyes shining with wetness as he squeezed a hand atop hers on the railing, something comforting in the gesture that she had not anticipated. “All I seem to do is chase that man around while he runs off saving everyone else.” His hand squeezed hers tighter, his face drawing near. “I’m glad someone finally came to save him.”

Daenerys could feel tears gathering in her own eyes, struck by the fear in the man’s voice, the relief, the very obvious care he had for this young Northern King. And there was no halting the wetness that tracked down her cheeks when he next spoke, whispered with such tremulous sorrow that a sob stuck in her throat, thick and consuming.

“I’m so sorry about your Dragon. Your son.” Davos gave a watery sigh, but she could not see his face, her vision blurring with tears that flowed freely now, and she turned blindly to the sea, letting the drops of briny water mix with the sorrow that marked her face, her shoulders shaking silently. “I know what it is to lose a son.”

For a long, silent moment she stood there, grief consuming her, the loss of one of her children blotting out all else, but then she felt it; Tentatively Ser Davos reached an arm around her, as though he sought to comfort her, and for a moment she was naught but a little girl again, frightened by a thunderstorm, Ser Willam there to hold her and shush her and make her feel safe. And so she leaned in, ever so slightly, grateful as she was gently gathered into the old smuggler’s embrace, his hand patting her back soothingly.

She wondered, to herself, if this was how it felt to have a father.

“Does no good to hold it all in, Your Grace. Ain’t no need to do so, not now.” At his whisper she felt the dam break, felt the torrent of sorrow and fear and pain as is swept over her, but she did not stop it, not this time. She wept, quietly, letting this man she hardly knew comfort her, crying like a babe at all she had lost, until her eyes were puffy and her nose stuffy and red. She pulled away, slowly, feeling his eyes on her as she tried to compose herself, a little ashamed that she had let herself fall apart so freely.

“Better?” His eyes were kind once more, concerned, no judgement clouding their depths as he studied her face, waiting for her to respond. She nodded, giving a sniff, swallowing hard as her vision cleared.

“Good.” He faced the sea once more, just as she did, his voice louder now as it carried through the ocean breeze. “Now I’m going to tell you what happens next.”

And as before he waited, until she was peering up at him, silver strands of hair blowing in the wind as he spoke, firmly and decisively. “You’re going to win this war, Daenerys Targaryen, and every person still amongst the living is going to make you their Queen, not because of your birthright, but because you’ve earned it.”

That he had any hope at all, in the face of what he had seen, in the face of what was coming sent a shudder of amazement through her. Just behind it, chasing along her spine, smaller and quieter but still there, was something else. Hope. If he could believe such, then she must have hope, not even that they could win, but that at least they stood a chance.

“And…” His voice trailed off as she looked up, his mouth twisting in a grin as he rubbed absently at his bearded chin. “It has occurred to me you might be in need of a King, should such come to pass.” His eyes twinkled, and she could not help but smile in return before she straightened her features.

“I might.” She did not look at him, knowing she would give herself away completely, knowing he probably sensed the truth anyway, but needing to keep up her ruse, just for now. “I don’t suppose you know of anyone fit for such an undertaking?”

Davos gave a low chuckle. “I might.” She could see, from the corner of her eyes, that he hesitated, his hands raising then lowering back down as he spoke. “Though if you wish such from him, you might find you need to do the offering.” He cleared his throat, amusement clear enough in his voice that she finally looked up. “The lad I have in mind seems to save all his boldness for the battlefield.”

Daenerys remembered the way he’d pulled her to him on the beach, the way he’d claimed her mouth so recklessly the prior night, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “You might be surprised in that respect, Ser Davos.”

When the man’s mouth made a tiny ‘o’ in surprise she giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth at the scandalized look on his face and the gnawing curiosity in his eyes. “What happened, exactly, while Tyrion and I were gone, Your Grace?”

Heat bloomed, not in her cheeks this time, but in her chest, at the notion that where other men might have bragged and boasted at the heated kisses they’d shared, Jon Snow had not spoken a word of it, not even to his Hand.

“I don’t know what you mean, Ser Davos.” She did nothing to halt her sly smile as the man’s eyes narrowed. “But I think I shall take my leave to see how the King fares.”

“But of course, Your Grace.” She began to walk away, smiling to herself fondly as Jon’s Hand began to laugh, merry and heartily, her fingers clasped tightly together, no longer able to fight the hunger that raged inside of her, that clamored to be near him again.

And perhaps, she thought, she might see if the man who had called her his Queen might hunger to be her King. If she were to wed, to survive this war and rule the Seven Kingdoms as she had always dreamed, she would take no other but him.

  



	12. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just knocking doors and knocking boots, you guys. It's about time we got to the sex, yeah?
> 
> As with every other chapter, this chapter's title is borrowed from the song title of the same name, from the album "My Head is an Animal" by Of Monsters and Men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, guys, clown shoes on and ready to pretend that Season 8 was just a silly fucking joke :) Here ends our tale, and this is where we go canon divergent, as this chapter centers around marriage requests, and god knows no one but the real MVP Davos ever thought to bring that shit up. Thanks to everyone who's left such kind comments on this repost - I didn't want to put this back up 'til I'd finally finished it, and here we are. Thanks for sailing together, fellow clowns.

Daenerys stared at her reflection, studying herself intently, her eyes scrutinizing as she chewed at her lower lip. She searched vainly, convinced she might find the source of the mutinous doubt swirling through her mind, groaning when it did not make itself plain upon her face.

Her eyes fell to the roughhewn desk, bolted to the cabin wall, lighting upon a small, neat stack of parchment bound with twine. Tyrion had been both cautious and vexed, anxious of the feelings she obviously harbored for Jon Snow and cross that she would present this proposed alliance to him alone.

Now, she felt a twinge of regret at the request to present a marital alliance to the King in the North on her own, wondering if it might not soothe her nerves to have Missandei at her side, at the very least.

After all, she thought, frowning at herself before closing her eyes, he might not agree.

She’d thought herself kind, earlier, when she suggested to her Hand that she would not force this on Jon Snow or the North, and that she rather thought he might disclose his true wishes privately instead of publicly.

It was a selfishness, she realized, that had prompted the idea, at least in part. She did not know if she could bear his refusal privately, but the notion of having to mask her despair publicly would keep her feet on this course.

She stood, shaking her head at her own foolishness, tendrils of hair sweeping across her shoulders and tangling in the silver brooch she fought to free from her coat. Placing the heavy chain on the desk, Daenerys began to pace, pondering her next step carefully.

Her fingers trailed to the neckline of the gray overcoat, of a mind to change into something less formal, perhaps just visiting him in the tunic and trousers she wore underneath, in what she had worn in their time together on Dragonstone.

She felt a smile begin to creep across her face, thinking wistfully that perhaps he’d brought some of those dreadfully strong spirits of his, when she heard it.

Three rapid knocks were all that was required, enough to set her heart pounding in her ears, to send her mind swarming with nervous excitement. She shook her head once more, quickly, pressing her hands together tightly, doubt and desire racing about with each step towards the heavy door of her cabin.

It was probably Tyrion, or Missandei even, stopping by to check on the Queen one last time before she retired to bed.

But certainly, it couldn’t be *him*. She grasped the iron pull firmly in hand, willing herself to bury the disappointment she could already feel building within her, her eyes downcast as she pulled the barrier open, her eyes slowly rising to meet his.

He was there, after all, this stubborn man who’d shown her more truth than she’d wished to see and convinced her to abandon her war for his. Jon Snow had stolen her heart, just as swiftly, and it was no use denying that truth to herself, either.

Jon stood in the hall, just outside the doorframe, his chest beginning to heave with heavy, nervous breaths. She could see her own restless trepidation mirrored in his eyes, and he did not speak, just stared at her with midnight eyes that begged her beautifully with suppressed need.

The King in the North had fought this, wrestled with it endlessly, just as she had. Daenerys could see it, in his heavy stare, how he warred with the wisdom of this. Still, he was here.

She moved aside slightly, pulling away from the open door to bid him entry. Curiosity was swiftly stifling her anxiety from moments ago, her eyes drawn to the pulse pounding enticingly at his throat, watching his neck bob as he swallowed heavily.

Silence lay heavy as he pushed the door closed firmly, his hand resting against the dark wood, his eyes still locked with hers. Though she scrambled for something to say, anything at all to speak aloud and fracture the weighty tension between them her mind was blank, scrubbed free of anything but him, standing there near breathless before her.

“I know I shouldn’t be here.” The depth of self-recrimination in his voice made the Queen immediately shake her head, her lips parting to tell him how wrong he was, that she wanted him there, but he held up a hand, his eyes nearly wild, his jaw tightly tensed.

“It’s improper, and presumptuous, but I just…” His words trailed off as he turned, pacing a tight circuit in the center of her stateroom. She watched, biting back all the things she burned to say to him, sensing the nervousness that drove his frantic movements. Daenerys started when he turned, suddenly, candlelight flickering off the leathers he still wore.

“I just needed to talk to you, to ask you something.” Her heart clenched at his rough-spoken statement, the timbre of his voice dropping as he took one step, then another, drawing closer to her. Surely he didn’t mean…

Her eyes fell to the contract she’d been agonizing over, realizing he had been much the same, in his own rooms. But he’d worked up the courage before she had, something she had not anticipated.

“Yes, Jon?” She smiled, softly, watching his eyes refocus on her as she stepped closer, watching his hands clench in fists at his side as she approached. Daenerys had hoped a smile might encourage him, but it only seemed to make him more anxious, and he grimaced slightly and swallowed.

“I wanted to ask…” his breath stuttered, and he closed his eyes briefly before continuing on, slowly meeting her gaze with something akin to terror in his eyes and coughing slightly. “I would never ask such of you for selfish reasons. I need to be sure you understand that.” Jon exhaled sharply, frowning and scrubbing at his face with a hand that trembled ever so slightly. “I ask because I truly believe it is the best option available to you.” Now he looked down, crossing his arms across his chest almost defensively. “I know it is not your only option, and my fealty is yours no matter your decision,” he looked up, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, rolling his jaw as though mentally preparing himself for the rejection he assumed was soon to follow.

She waited, letting him speak one last time, the last wistful fragments of the girl she had once been flaring to life like tinder, aching to hear this man she yearned for ask what she had been to hesitant to present, biting at the tender flesh inside her cheek to stifle a grin as he finally ground out the words.

“We should marry.” His eyelids fell shut, just for a heartbeat, dejected acceptance already settling over his features.

“Yes.” It was impossible not to let her lips twitch as he started, eyes widening in surprise as he gaped at her in confusion.

“What?” She’d never heard him so breathless, this aloof warrior King, but she kept her composure as she strode towards her desk, her hands grasping the parchment stack as she turned to face him again.

“Apologies, Jon. I should have been clearer.” It began to sink in, well and truly, comprehension dawning on his features as his shoulders seemed to sag in hesitant relief. “I agree that we should marry.” Daenerys drew near, allowing her hips to sway a bit more than necessary as she stepped closer, stopping mere inches from him and gazing up at him through her lashes as she pressed the contract against his chest.

“What’s this?” Jon stared down, uncomprehending as he gingerly took the stack of parchment from her and moving back a pace to examine the bundle she’d given him.

“I must confess, I have often considered myself quite brave.” Daenerys offered a wry smile as his eyes darted between her and the papers he now clasped with both hands. “But it seems you have bested me, Jon. I’ve been sitting here for some time attempting to muster the courage to do what you already have.”

A tip of her head towards the contract was all the encouragement he needed to finally focus on Tyrion’s precise script, his eyes widening comically though he must have already guessed what he would find.

“You’re serious.” His words escaped in a low, whispered exhale, eyes climbing from the page to meet hers. “You really want to wed yourself to me?”

Daenerys titled her head, errant curls streaming over her shoulder as she wrinkled her brow in consternation. “Of course, I do.” When his own brow furrowed in response, she came close enough to feel the heat of his body, the puff of each breath as it left his parted lips. “Why would you think differently? I dare say I have made myself plain enough in my wishes.”

At the knowing arch of her brow he gave her a grudging smile. “I suppose you have, Your Grace.”

The Queen clasped her hands together before her, the dark grey fabric of her coat rough against the edges of her palms as she considered him. “Then tell me, Jon, what gives you such pause?”

The King in the North stared solemnly at her, his eyes like glittering coals in the candlelit room. As she watched, he rolled his shoulders, walking the short distance to the lone wooden chair beside the desk before gently placing the pages on the knotted wooden tabletop, sitting and bracing his hands on his knees as he answered. She could see, from the hard set of his jaw, from the subtle motion as he surely ground his teeth together, that he did not want to say what he was going to say.

“I am bastard-born.” He held up both hands as she began to reply, the words dying on her lips as he begged her with his eyes to let him say what he must. “I know you do not judge me for it, Daenerys, but there are many and more who do, and will judge you for wedding yourself to me.” Jon sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth as he continued. “There’ll be plenty of my own Lords who would be offering up their own for such honor once we arrive.”

Daenerys nodded her head slowly, thoughtfully, daring to move closer, acutely aware of every breath, now, every beat of her heart as she studied him. She knew, if she looked down, her knuckles would be white with the effort to keep her hands still. “And yet here you are, Jon.”

“Aye.” His hands flexed where they held tight to his trouser-covered knees. “Though I know it will cause you shame, Daenerys, here I am.” She saw his teeth flash for a moment as he sunk them into his lower lip. “A very selfish thing to do.”

“Though I hate to rob you of the opportunity to brood over it, my Lord, I fear I must.” She licked her lips quickly, watching as his eyes tracked the movement. “My advisors feel it is in my best interest, politically, to wed myself to you, to join our houses, our forces.” She advanced until she was just shy of his bent legs, her booted feet brushing against his as he looked up at her. “I agree with them, but I must confess something to you, Jon.”

Daenerys leaned forward, slowly, her hands climbing up to cup his jaw on either side, her fingers stroking gently as she whispered, “I will marry you because I want to.” His eyes softened, finally, his hands leaving his knees at last to rest against each other at her lower back. “Another selfish thing to do, isn’t it?”

“You’re sure.” There was a residing skepticism, as he asked the question, as though, even now, he couldn’t quite believe she was agreeing.

“You know, Jon,” she remarked dryly, “You say you’ve come here to suggest we wed, and yet I cannot quite shake the notion that you’re trying to talk me out of it.” She tipped her head down ever so slightly, letting her lips just graze against his, but pulling away before he could make any move to deepen the contact. “I am entirely sure.” She rubbed her thumbs gently against the apples of his cheeks. “Aren’t you?”

His eyes held hers for several ponderous moments, searching desperately, and so she held nothing back. She did not try to shutter the want, and the need that had built inside her, in the time they’d spent together. She did not try to hide the fondness she held for him.

She loved him, she knew, and so she stopped hiding that as well, praying that he would see, that he would shed the last of his fears as she was trying to, that he would see what they could be, together. After all, it was together they stood, hand in hand, an army of swirling, icy dead at their backs. She would jump, if he would, and the fates could do as they desired. She cared little, so long as she had him, even one tiny part, carved out for herself; She could allow some selfishness, at the end of the world, at the end of all things. She tried with all her might, to make it clear, her eyes steady as she gazed at him, willed him to see all the things she had not yet found the courage to say.

“Aye,” he said at last, his hands falling away, and she was confused, wondering at the way he broke their contact, before he moved to stand. She stepped back, allowing him room, nearly amused at the way he began to peer around the dimly lit room almost frantically. “Haven’t you got a quill?”

He touched his fingers to the contract, in explanation, and she let loose with a short bark of laughter. “Jon,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “don’t you want to read it first?”

The King in the North cocked his head at her, studying her for a moment before he answered. “No, not particularly. I’d expect it’s fairly standard.” When she simply stared at him, slightly aghast, he frowned, leaning a hip against the table as he eyed her. “If we are to be married, I should think we must trust each other, Daenerys. Don’t you?” He seemed more sure of himself, now, those doubts that had weighed about his shoulders when he’d knocked on her door looking to have fallen away, leaving behind a man who’d decided on his course of action, all to eager to seal his fate to hers.

“Oh,” she breathed out, a bit stunned, a bit chagrined. She knew, if their roles were reversed, she’d have read that contract page by page, just to make sure she was being dealt with fairly. Some lessons lingered. “Well, yes,” she said, haltingly. “I suppose you are right.” She dared to approach again, her eyes narrowing playfully as she decided on a course of action, now that things had been laid plain between them, a concordance reached. She lifted a hand to her stiff overcoat, releasing the clasp and shrugging out of it to hang it on the wooden chair tucked under the desk. “I certainly appreciate your trust,” she continued smoothly, tugging at the hem of her tunic, looking at the strong hand planted upon their nuptial contract, his longer fingers splayed atop it.

Jon’s mouth quirked in a smile, his eyes heating, incrementally, with each move she made, though he played at aloofness as he returned her stare. “A quill?” The rasping question reminded her that their deal was not yet struck, not quite, and she rummaged about on the desk with an apologetic smile, finally locating a small well of ink and a rather battered quill in a low drawer.

The moment she proffered the items he relieved her of them, pulling the stopper out with his teeth in a rather hurried fashion, dipping the quill and scratching his name precisely on the final page with a flourish. “Now you,” he urged sweetly, passing her the quill, his focus devoted to the way her hand shaped each letter of her name, a sense of impatience permeating the air between them now as she finished the final ‘n’ and leaned down, blowing on the ink to dry it.

“Well, that’s done and settled,” she said cheerily, straightening to find a Jon Snow she wasn’t sure she fully recognized now standing before her. “Although,” she continued, almost absently, swayed swiftly towards the deep and abiding hunger in her bones by the way his eyes had darkened, the way he was tracking her every move, with every sway of the boat beneath their feet, with a predatory stare, “I suppose we shall need Tyrion to witness it.”

The King in the North nodded, just barely, and as she watched his fingers rose to the lacing at his leathers. “Aye,” he agreed, his voice dropped so low she could barely discern it, more growl than anything. “But these are glad tidings. Perhaps we ought to celebrate such momentous diplomatic achievements, just betwixt us, for now.” He glanced towards the porthole, into the black night, his brow raised slightly when he returned his gaze to her. “The hour is terribly late to go about disturbing your Hand, or mine for that matter.”

Relief was potent, as it flowed through her. At last, they were of the same mind.

“Very wise, Jon, very wise indeed.” She backed slowly away from him, peeking over her shoulder at the bed behind her, more than large enough for the things she had in mind. She let her fingers toy with the neck of her tunic, smiling wickedly as he finished working away at his gambeson, laughing lightly when he tossed it, without ceremony, on the wooden decking with a resounding thud. “This does call for a celebration. Did you have something,” she licked at her lips as he tugged his tunic over his head, exposing his sinfully muscled torso to her hungry eyes, “*particular* in mind?”

She had already seen the scars upon his chest, and they stirred the animal in her, the dragon that scented the animal within him, the wolf that had prowled around her for weeks, scenting and testing, discerning her weaknesses. She very much doubted he’d realized he was the weakness, the sum of him all the things she hadn’t know she wanted, and her mouth went dry as he stopped a foot shy of her and slid his hand behind her neck, smoothly, closing the rest of the distance between them with a firm tug on her neck, his other hand pushing against her back until first their chests collided, and then their lips.

Dany had not realized how much he must have been holding back, in every embrace, until this one. His lips feasted on hers, sucking and pulling, his tongue slipping between her lips when she gasped with a surety that had always been marred with hesitation, as if he’d always feared he would overstep in his affection. Now, blissfully, he seemed to have moved beyond such concerns, and she was moaning against his lips, her tongue flirting against his, teasing and tracing, as it danced and darted between their mouths. Her hands climbed up his strong arms to his shoulders, gripping tightly, her nails digging in as he tightened his embrace, his cock hard and insistent as it pushed against her stomach.

He broke the kiss, his lips wet and shining in the light of the sconces beside the bed, and looked down at her with glittering, famished eyes. “I had one or two ideas.”

She raised both brows, lips curling up, then ducked under his arm, heading for the door to her stateroom before he could do so much as blink. She smiled to herself, as she reached the door, throwing the bolt and then slowly turning to find him watching her, chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Daenerys leaned against the door coyly, her palms spread flat at her sides against the wood grain, rolling her head to the side as his gaze only grew hungrier. “Can’t have your honor rearing its ugly head, just when things are getting interesting.”

She was pinned, then, by a look so carnal, so purely full of lust that she fell her knees turn to jelly, her palms now pressing harder to help her steady herself as he stalked across the room, his hands planting themselves on either side of her head, his lips tickling against her cheek as he whispered, “So at last, you’ve made me your prisoner, is that it?”

Daenerys thought she rather liked the sound of that, the images that flooded her mind at the notion, any number of decidedly wicked ideas serving to fan the flames of her desire ever higher. She bit her lip, staring up at him, letting her eyes linger on his lips for a long, sinful moment before she dragged them up to his heavy-lidded gaze. Her mouth went dry for a moment, because she realized, as she studied him, that he had fully dropped the mask he’d always worn, that the last of his defenses were truly worn away.

It was true that he wanted her, it was clear in his eyes, his pupils so wide and black that she could barely discern the ring of iron grey that banded them. No doubt the beast within the man was counting down the minutes until he was buried inside her, and she felt her cunt clench at the prospect, her fingers curling slightly against the door as she pressed her thighs together, trying to draw things out, wanting to savor the first time she had him in her bed.

But there was more there, than just the want, things that she knew were echoed in her own heart.

Jon Snow was in love with her, and while the confirmation of it in his heavy stare was enough to make her pulse begin to pound frantically, it was terrifying.

He looked terrified, as well, terrified and exhilarated and terribly aroused.

She licked her lips, letting the tip of her tongue linger for a moment before allowing it to retreat back into hiding, enjoying the way his nostrils flared at the sight.

“That is an intriguing proposition, to be sure.” She smirked as he huffed out a breath, leaning in to nip at the tendon of his neck before she slipped away yet again, darting to the opposite wall, to where a jug of Arbor Gold sat, and she poured out two goblets, taking a sip from her own then holding his out, chuckling as she saw the slight frustration in his now narrowed eyes and stiff stride. Still, he took the wine, his eyes trained on her over the rim of his goblet as he took a healthy sip.

Jon really was a beautiful man, his chest naked and cast in flickering shadows as the candles set in the sconces guttered and flared. She licked away a drop of wine, watching him breathe deeply and then take another large gulp. She couldn’t look away from the bobbing of his throat, as he swallowed the wine down, from the way his eyes seemed drawn back to, as though he couldn’t look away, either.

Arousal beat a steady thrum, threading through her, and she marveled that she was ready for him, now, the weeks they’d spent together, dancing ever closer to each other leaving her primed and slightly breathless as they stared at each other in her dimly-lit cabin.

One last swallow, and her wine was gone. She took a step, preparing to refill her goblet, surprised that though she’d had men in her bed before, she was nervous this night in a way she had never felt. Before, it had been driven by fear, or in Daario’s case purely lust, but this was different. Jon was different.

This felt far more important.

His hand was at her elbow before she could take even one more pace, and then the other was taking her goblet from her fingers, and it was he who made the journey to place both on the sideboard with an air of finality. It took him a moment, to turn, his back straightening as he wheeled around to look upon her as though he might devour her whole.

“Daenerys,” he rasped, coming close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin, could see every twitch and muscle movement in his bared chest, could reach out a mere inch and trace to those scars, if she wished, “I reckon it’s rather unfair that I’m halfway to naked, while you still have all your clothes on.”

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, she let one brow raise, her tongue sliding along her teeth as she trailed a fingertip down his breastbone, the warmth of his skin only fueling her need for more contact. “If you find current conditions unsatisfactory, Jon Snow, then I would suggest you do something about it.” Her lips twisted in a wicked smile when he grabbed at the hem of her tunic with urgency, and raised her arms willingly as he stripped it from her, bare before him save but her own trousers and boots.

She waited, watching his face twist and change as he looked upon her, couldn’t help but notice the way his hands trembled slightly as they slid up her ribs to cup her breasts, his thumbs finding and stroking nipples that were pebbled and aching. Daenerys could do little to stop the groan that passed her lips, and even less to hide the way she arched into his touch. And it was easy enough to gauge the satisfaction on his face, at her response, at the way she reacted to his easy touch.

“It has to be said,” he breathed, his eyes on the rise and fall of her chest, as her breath quickened, his thumbs pressing harder, faster as he licked his lips. “I have a shit imagination.” Her hoarse chuckle was lost when he ducked his head, his lips and tongue capturing a nipple and began a tugging, teasing assault that had her wobbling on knees that became weak within moments. Gods, but the heat of his mouth, the way he worked her, gently grazing the tender skin with his teeth before laving with his tongue; It was enough to make her lose her head completely. Her head fell back, her breath hissing out between clenched teeth as he switched sides, determined to treat her other breast to his same tender torment. All she could do, for several breathless minutes, was clutch tightly to his shoulders.

It had been so long, since she’d been touched like this.

“Jon,” she moaned, one hand sliding up his neck to fist in his hair, to hold him more tightly to her. The sound of his name roused him from his stupor, his beard rasping along the curve of her breast as he released her from the wet cavern of his mouth, his eyes dark as pitch when they met hers. He walked forward, without a word, backing her up until the backs of her knees bumped her bed, and she sat, watching mutely as he fell to his knees before her, his gaze still trained on her face. His face, however, was level with her heaving chest, and he rested his chin against her sternum, maintaining his stare.

“Still too many clothes,” he finally said, decisively, and she felt a hand at her ankle, just before he stripped her boot from her left foot, then hooked a finger in the thick woolen socks she’d worn, and discarded them as well. He mirrored the motion on the right, his eyes never leaving hers, and she found that she liked this Jon. He was perhaps her favorite, boldness resting pleasantly on his shoulders. Here, at last, was the Jon she’d known was there, lurking just below the skin, just as much a beast as she.

This was the Jon Snow who took what he wanted, and this night she had little patience for gentleness. She wanted to be taken, to be claimed, and to take and claim in return. When thick fingers tucked themselves into the waist of her trousers her breath stuttered, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, suddenly, claiming his lips roughly, their tongues sliding against each other in a slick duel for dominance, as she swallowed his heady moan, only to whine in the back of her throat as he tugged at the lacing of her garment.

“Dany,” he whispered, and she fought not to start at that name. He had called her such, before, and she had been shaken to her very core by the power of it, of that once accursed name falling from his lips. When Jon Snow spoke those two syllables, she was borne again, something wholly other than what she had been.

He claimed her mouth once more, the sinuous dance of his tongue against hers enough to enchant her, to pull her fully under his spell as he thumbed at her nipples again, making her writhe and moan against him.

This Jon Snow had such power over her, though when he looked upon her she wondered that he didn’t seem to fully understand, and it was beguiling, this air of innocence about him, for all his ardor.

She remembered what Theon had told her, this man who had too much honor to bed himself with a common whore, but who touched her with the ease of one who’d lain with a woman before. He was no green boy, she thought, as he finally worked the knot at her waist free, but he was not, perhaps, as worldly as her other lovers had been, perhaps not as practiced.

That mattered very little, she thought, anticipation making her ever wetter, slicker and hotter, so ready for him she thought that she might find release at just his mouth upon her chest, his head dipping again, mouth working first one flushed nipple, then the other, each stiff peak laved and nibbled and then pinched and twisted, with increasing force as he coaxed a chained series of plaintive cries from her lips.

It wasn’t even words that he drew from her, anymore, her utterances more gibberish than anything else, but at each exclamation came an answering groan against her skin, as if he answered her call, as if he understood precisely what he was doing to her. Each groan sounded to her ears as though he promised more, endlessly more, and she gasped when he slipped a hand away from her chest to slide beneath her loosed trousers.

Within moments his finger slipped between her folds, as her trousers inched lower, and at that first contact with her drenched cunt, at that first true, unmistakable sign of the exact measure of her want for him, he wrenched his head away from her, her breasts slick with his saliva, his eyes only black as he stared into her eyes, panting, something approximating surprise on his singularly handsome face.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and let his fingers dance along the shape of her. She couldn’t help her keening whine, and she fell back onto the bed, barely noticing when he stripped her trousers from her, ridding her of the rest of her clothing. His fingers were exploring her again quickly, within seconds, an expression of wonder on his face as, never ceasing his ministrations, this gentle discovery, he sidled up beside her on the bed and propping himself up to watch her with his other arm. Her eyes slammed shut, her head rolling back into the furs, as he slid one long, thick finger into her, probing gently, her hands fisting in the bedcovers as he worked another finger into her, stretching her deliciously. “Is this for me, Dany?”

She couldn’t answer him, had no desire to correct him when he called her that for the second time, for on his lips it was a prayer, his voice so full of worship that she was clenching around the invading digits, drawing another deep groan from him. His mouth fell to her neck, the down to her delicate collar bone, sucking at her skin and purpling it, surely. She let her hands tangle in his raven hair, freeing the curls he always kept held back, determined to keep him close. Her legs squeezed tight, trapping his hand between them, only allowing the slight twist of it, as he swept his thumb across her nub.

Daenerys called his name, more loudly than was prudent, she thought, but she was helpless. She did not understand, in the part of her mind that was not wholly swamped in sensation, how he’d reduced her to the wordless, babbling mess so swiftly, but as his fingers stroked, as his thumb circled, as his mouth teased and tormented her she was far beyond caring.

She held his head tighter, and felt release begin to build, sharp and hot, her back arching off the bed as she thrust against his hand, taking those questing fingers deeper within. She moaned his name again, biting her lip between her teeth, bucking under his touch, and when his mouth captured a stiff, rosy peak, drawing on it sharply, flicking it with a stiffened tongue she came apart, shuddering and shaking in his grasp as her cunt clamped down on his fingers, her walls rippling in waves as he slowed his pace.

Dany struggled to catch her breath, dimly shocked that he’d brought her to her peak so quickly, absently realizing his mouth was no longer on her as she fought to regain control of her sluggish limbs. When she was able to crack her eyes open, she looked about, finding him halfway down her body, his head only inches from her navel, watching her with glittering eyes.

His fingers still danced along her slick folds, and when he glanced against her still-sensitive clit, her hips rolled of their own accord, and she let free a stifled whimper.

Jon Snow nodded, decisively, and she thought that he’d never seemed more a King to her than when he narrowed his eyes and slid down the bed, kneeling between her limp thighs and slinging them over his shoulders. “Again,” he commanded, and with the first swipe of his tongue against her cleft she knew bliss, and saw stars.

This, this was what Missandei had whispered to her about, this was the way in which Greyworm had given her great pleasure, his mouth working against her until her handmaiden said she’d had to force him away.

None had done this particular thing to her, neither her husbands nor the lover she’d taken for herself, and she could only claw at the bedlinens as suckled gently at the tender bud at the apex of her sex, only to release her and lave a hot trail of fire with his clever tongue. Over and over, he tasted her, licking and sucking her folds between his lips, as though he would steal all trace of her desire from her, taking it into himself, only to find more welling at her center.

When he plunged his tongue inside her she groaned, and she writhed so arduously against him that his hands came up to bracket her hips, holding her still as that coiling spring of pleasure began to build inside her again. “Jon,” she chanted, over and over, between whine and cries and gasps, but he never ceased. He seemed to know what she wanted, as she ground herself against his face, and his tongue traced around her nub in tight, concentric circles as he finally loosed one hand from her hip.

His fingers thrusting inside her, again, spreading apart, preparing her for what he would give her next, spurred another loud cry from her lips, and then he was crooking them, as though beckoning her release, speeding it alone as he found a spot that made her burn. She was an animal, solely a creature of heady pleasure, everything narrowing to his fingers inside her cunt and his tongue against her sex, and this time, when her back bowed from the bed, when her hips lifted, when she tightened and released against his fingers in rolling waves of the sweetest agony she’d ever felt, his vibrating moan prolonged it, and she was lost in the cresting glory of it.

She was only dimly aware, as she recovered from his ministrations, of his body settling against hers, his hands smoothing her hair back from her flushed cheeks, his lips near her ear crooning sweet whispers that she could barely hear.

As the fog slowly cleared, she opened her eyes, turning onto her side and cupping his jaw in her hand, drawing a thigh slowly up his side, frowning when she encountered the trousers he still wore.

“Jon,” she said, her voice thick and slow as syrup, and just as sweet, “you’ve got to get rid of those trousers if you want to stay in this bed.”

Gods, she shivered at the look in his eyes, a yawning, endless hunger there, in those onyx depths. Her releases had only stirred him further, and he breath came in great, heaving gulps, his hands trembling as he pushed another strand of silver behind her ear. She did not think it was hunger that made him shake. It was want, hot and wild and burning bright, and he gave her a sinful twist of his lips as his eyes strayed down to the offending garment.

“If you find current conditions unsatisfactory, Daenerys, then I would suggest you do something about it,” he drawled, in a voice laced with playful teasing, and she was not sure what she liked best about him, in the here and now. He craved her, looked upon her like a man starved, dying to slake himself, and that was a wonderful thing. But he wanted to tease, to play, just as she did, and it was that which sparked her own desire anew, her thighs still slick but her ardor building again as she slowly pushed to her knees, resting back on her heels as she looked down on his, surveying before she conquered.

“How is it you became so wise, King in the North?” She gave him no time to answer, shifting down suddenly and ridding him of his trousers in a series of tugging pulls, grateful he’d had the wisdom to toe off his boots before he’d given her such decadent pleasure. Now, she thought, she would very much like to return the favor.

For all that her brother had been a monster, for all that he had hurt her, he had done her one final favor, in their time amongst the Dothraki, and she would put Doreah’s lessons to full use on this one now reclining back in her bed, finally, blessedly naked, his cock hard and thick and standing at impressive attention as she finally worked the wool from his ankles. She climbed back up his body, carefully avoiding the hardness that strained and bobbed and begged for her attention, settling herself and straddling his thighs, letting her palms skirt and skate along his hips. He trembled beneath her, dark eyes tracking her every move, and she leaned forward, letting her hair trail along his skin, surely tickling, as she braced her hands just above his shoulders and claimed his mouth, splitting his lips with her tongue in a slow, languorous kiss.

She only stopped when his lips were swollen and wet, a trail of saliva lingering between them until she sat back again, her gaze as heavy as a caress as she let her eyes wander. When his hands inched up to her hips, she swatted them away, gently, before taking them in hers and guiding them to the slats of the headboard just above his head.

“Leave them there,” she whispered hotly against the shell of his ear, “prisoner,” and when she pulled back she saw his eyes screwed shut, the silken length of her thigh just glancing against the hot length of him as she hovered above. “Open your eyes,” she commanded, though gently, and when he obeyed she saw how very hard he was fighting, to control himself, to hold on to the last tethers of willpower that were swiftly fleeing.

She smiled.

“Now,” she said softly, her fingers trailing along his chest, tweaking one flat nipple and making him gasp, “what have we here?” One lone fingertip traced a path from his navel, teasing and dipping into the hollow as his muscles clenched, every hard line and plane straining as she toyed with him. It followed the trail of dark hair down to her prize, his flushed cock twitching every so often in time with the pulse that beat in his neck, and she let her lips follow the path her fingers had taken, until her mouth was just even with the weeping tip.

When she glanced up, he was watching her, a predatory gleam in his eyes, his tongue wetting his dry lips as he shivered, and she let the soft skin of his shaft brush along her cheek, her hand dropping to let her fingers test the shape and heft of his stones.

Jon cursed under his breath, and she could see him fighting the urge to slam his eyes shut again, marveling at the way he kept them open, though they were hooded and heavy, and his legs tensed on either side of her, where she now kneeled between them.

“Dany,” he said brokenly, as she fisted him gently, his flesh so soft, like velvet, that she wanted to purr in contentment. She let her tongue tease along his cockhead, learning the shape of him, savoring the salt of him as she sucked gently at his tip, and he groaned so loudly she wondered that she might be hurting him. “Don’t stop,” he urged, as his knuckles whitened on the wooden slats, and she complied, all too willingly, her mouth opening wider, saliva pooling and slipping free as she took him deeper, her fist sealing against her lips as she began to suck and stroke in earnest. She needed more, more of his groans and moans and whines of her name, of his toes curling into the bedding, helpless to her touch.

She wanted to see him as broken apart as he had made her, and the notion drove her faster, her excitement at his mindless surrender to her touch only fanning the flames of her own desire, arousal dripping down her thigh as she licked along his length, only freeing him from the wet heat of her mouth when he was as slick as she could make him, as slick as her cunt would have if she’d taken him inside, and when she moved lower, to capture one of his stones, her tongue tracing the tight curve, he snapped.

His hands were under her arms in an instant, hauling her roughly up his body, and his disobedient fingers were between her thighs, testing her, cursing anew when he found how wet she was for him. “Not this time, Dany. I want to be inside you, this time.”

It set her teeth on edge, the way his words drove her to a fever pitch, and she wanted the same, in truth. She set her knees on either side of his narrow hips, and fisted him once more, pumping and priming, before teasing the head of him through her folds. “Mercy, Dany,” he begged, and she smiled down at his blissfully torment face as she gave him what they both wanted, his cock splitting her and sliding into her heated depths in a long, smooth stroke as she took him in, inch by inch.

When she was fully seated upon him, her pelvis pressed against his, she let out a low, breathy moan, her head dropping back as she let her tender flesh adjust to the invasion. It had been so long, for her, and perhaps for him as well, for she was under no illusions that the King beneath her, inside her, was some untried boy. Rough palms scraped up the length of her thighs, and she clenched around him, as his fingers dug into the fleshy curves of her hips.

“Dany,” he whispered, “look at me.” She did, rolling her head down, peeling her lips back to stare at him, and she knew she had been right. He loved her, it was written on his face, etched into his soul, there in every hot look and lingering touch. They paused, each of them, just for a moment, eyes saying what lips had yet to proclaim, and then she gave a testing roll of her hips.

This was a dance she knew well, but this was different, and as she began to rise and fall above him, her hips circling and teasing, drawing out each upstroke before plunging down upon him again, she realized just how much. She had never hungered like this before, it had never felt so good, so right, and she pulled one of his hands free to place it upon her breast.

He understood, and she didn’t have to ask, his fingers tightening immediately on the soft curve, palming and teasing, twisting and pinching at the stiff, rosy peak of her nipple as she settled into a fast, driving rhythm, suddenly desperate to see what he looked like, when release finally took him, desperate to be the cause, his growing cries and grunts making her own muscles clench and a sharp pleasure began to build within her, each slip of his hard cock against that spot within making her tense, her teeth clenching as she took them both ever closer. She burned, every inch of skin reveling in his touch, and her hands fell to his chest, bracing herself as she began to ride him in hard, short strokes, their skin slapping, the wet sounds of their coupling the only sound in the room save for their harsh, ragged breathing.

He was cursing steadily, now, the Northern burr of his voice making them words of exaltation, and still their eyes remained locked together. She could see the strain in him, how he fought his own release, holding back as her back began to bow, and she fought as well, so close to the edge, trying to hold their stare, the way they watched each other somehow more intimate, even than what their bodies did.

His hand left her chest, and she whined, high in her throat, but that whine became a heady groan when he sucked his tongue into his mouth, quickly, then brought it between her legs, flicking and rubbing against her clit, and then she was there, spasming and clenching around him, bidding him to chase after her, his name a praising call as she chanted it, over and over, in time with each tightening squeeze of her cunt.

And then he was there, as well, his seed spilling in hot, thick pulses, making her eyes roll up, her lids finally closing as she savored it, though she knew it was a fruitless act. He filled her with it, his hips jerking and thrusting beneath her, until finally he slowed, grunting with pleasure as the aftershocks of her released made themselves known in a few more light, fluttering clenches of her walls around him.

She lowered herself to his chest, keeping him trapped within her, wishing with all her heart that she could stay just like this, forever.

This Jon Snow was the very best Jon Snow, his skin dewed with sweat, his pulse thundering under her ear, his battle-scarred chest stuttering as he tried to slow his breath. His hands swept up, from just above the swells of her ass to the length of her spine, as her own breath fanned against his skin. He stroked the same path, over and over, soothing and smoothing along her back, until their hearts had slowed.

“You know,” he whispered, finally, Dany rolling her head up, her chin settling gently into his sternum as he spoke, “if I had to choose, I would much rather celebrate all things this way.”

She giggled, softly, as his eyes crinkled, his smile warm and soft and a thing of rare and devastating beauty. “Then let us hope we have many things to celebrate.”

He frowned slightly, his happy smile gone, replaced by a trace of morose sadness. “Everything inside me tells me you should go, that I should never have brought you into this fight. That I am leading you to your death.” He shook his head, his jaw tight, his eyes straying to the window, where the shaft of moonlight pierced the dim light of the room. “This is not the war you came to fight.”

She leaned up, resting her forehead against his, forcing him to look at her, and she could see the terrible regret he harbored. Tracing her hand along the rasping hair at his cheek, she sighed. “It is not. But it is the war I must fight. For all of us.”

“I love you,” he whispered, and her eyes grew wet, but still, she did not look away, even as a tear dripped down her cheek and onto his. “I know this would be easier, if I did not, I know it’s selfish, and foolish. I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t.” Again, he shook his head, as though he were ashamed of himself, of this weakness.

But this was a weakness shared, and she kissed him, gently. “Jon,” she said, “if it is a foolish, selfish, thing, to love, then I fear we are both similarly afflicted. Twice have I wed,” she continued, laying a finger across his lips when he parted them, to speak, “and I should think, if I am to die in this war, it will not be such a terrible thing. Not if I have known what it is like to be wedded to one that I love. One who loves me, in return. Can it be so foolish, to want that?”

He sat up, slowly, pulling her with him, cradling her to his chest as his softening cock finally slipped free. “No,” he finally whispered in return, thickly, and she felt wetness upon his cheek as well, as it brushed against hers. “Not foolish.” He wrapped his arms around her, tightly. “I have always been told,” he said, with the air of confession heavy in his voice, “that to love means to sacrifice your duty. That love is a sweet poison, that kills all reason.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But if that is so, then it is one I will gladly take, now.”

Her lips twisted in a smile, and she pulled her face back to look at the sadness that warred with contentment in those iron gray eyes. “And why is that?”

“Because,” he replied, swallowing hard, glancing around the room before finally meeting her gaze again, “for once, just for once in my entire bloody life, I wish to know what it is like. To be happy. To know another loves me just for what I am, and nothing else.”

Her throat clenched so tightly that she thought she might suffocate, at the sound of her own deepest wishes relayed to her so, and for a moment she simply sat, trying not to weep at how they had both suffered, both been starved of the thing they so dearly wanted. But she would give it to him, as much as he could take, for as long as they both drew breath.

“Then I shall endeavor to make it so,” she said shakily, and he thumbed away an errant tear that tracked down her cheek. “I wish for that as well.”

He gave a watery chuckle, sniffing, thumb still circling her cheek as he kissed her, tenderly, sweetly, a kiss full of promise. “Then I do not doubt that it will be, for you are a fearsome woman, and there are none so foolish as to deny you the things you wish.” He smiled at her, pulling her closer still, his heartbeat a gentle song against her ear. “Especially not me.”

\--------

The sun was high in the sky when they awoke, in a tangle of limbs and hair and sticky skin, and they took turns cleaning each other, availing themselves of the wash basin in her cabin to at least attempt to present a respectable front.

They found Tyrion in the galley, and her Hand surely did not miss the way Dany’s fingers were tangled with his, they way they stood side by side as Jon dropped their marital contract onto the table.

She held out a quill and ink. “You shall need to sign this, Lord Hand, for the King in the North has agreed to wed himself to me.”

Daenerys simply smiled, serenely, even as Tyrion’s brows rose skeptically, as he gave them both a sour, twisted smile. He dipped the quill and signed, though it was clear the small man was full to the brim with misgivings.

“If you think this is the wisest course, My Queen,” he said, and she paid little head to the warning there. She knew he harbored emotions best not felt towards her, but he had been clear with her, as well, when they left Meereen for these unfriendly shores. The best way to make an alliance, was though marriage, and she was a Queen.

She would wed a King, this King, the one whose hand was clasped tightly in hers, and if there were those who meant to stand against her, against them, she would face them on the field of battle, with her warrior King at her side.

Davos entered just as Tyrion was blowing his signature dry, and his reaction was in even starker contrast that her Hand’s had been. “Oh-ho!” The man clapped as he eyed the papers spread on the long, wooden table. “Do my old eyes deceive me, or has an agreement been reached at last?”

He peered owlishly at Jon, then Dany, coming to stand behind them and clapping happy, heavy hands onto each of their shoulders.

“Aye, Davos,” Jon replied, amused at the man’s obvious glee. “We are to be wed.”

The grizzled man beamed, leaning close to Jon to whisper loudly, “See? I told you, lad. What did I say? I told you she would accept.” He looked so pleased that Daenerys couldn’t help but laugh, giving the man a sidelong glance.

“You were right, Jon,” she trilled, “he does get carried away.”

Jon laughed then, as well, a hearty, full sound that warmed her from within.

“Nonsense,” Davos admonished, stepping back to clap his hands together forcefully. “What happy tidings! This calls for a celebration!”

Davos and Tyrion began to argue about the wisdom of a feast aboard ship, but her attention was quickly stolen by her husband-to-be, who raised his brows at her enticingly and squeezed her hand meaningfully.

“He’s right,” Jon whispered, “I think a celebration is definitely in order.” He released her hand only to sweep an arm around her shoulders, walking them both briskly to the galley door as the men continued to quarrel. “Let’s go to my quarters, that ought to buy us at least an extra-quarter hour.”

She snorted in amusement, shaking her head but nodding in agreement. “Many things can be done in a quarter hour,” she answered, “for those with the appropriate *stamina*.” She trailed her fingers down his chest to tease along his waist. “Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, Aye, Dany,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “I most assuredly do.” He threw the door open, and they began to run, hand in hand, down the length of the ship, where they might steal away once more, where there was nothing but him, and her, and the rocking of the sea.

This was love, Daenerys knew, and she was never going to let it go.


End file.
